


The Distance to Here

by jld_az



Series: And We Are Merely Players (Book One) [4]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: In the aftermath of Patternfall, two strangers form a friendship rooted in mutual loss.Title from 'The Distance to Here' by Live
Relationships: Martin & Tristan (OMC), Martin / Ariaunna (OFC)
Series: And We Are Merely Players (Book One) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709362
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains **MASSIVE SPOILERS** for '[Liberty She Pirouette](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731828)', so if you haven’t, you should probably read that one first. Just sayin'.
> 
> Shadow Earth Timestamp (brief as it is): August 1997

The first time, he woke to the hiss-and-whir cadence of a ventilator, the steady beat of a cardiac monitor, the distant call of an intercom through a closed door.

He knew they'd won. If they hadn't, he doubted he'd be in a hospital.

* * *

The second time, it was late afternoon and the television was on. A woman was posturing dramatically at a couple seated on the other side of the stage. A large bald man in black slacks and shirt stood between, poised to intercept her.

There was no sound, and he could not make out the white-on-black lettering scrolling up the bottom of the picture, but he didn't think he needed to. Her blurred-out gestures spoke volumes.

* * *

The third time, the ventilator was gone and his throat was raw. A grey dawn was seeping through the half-slatted blinds, casting the figure sleeping in the nearby chair in backlight. Even so, Tristan knew him.

"Dad."

His voice was harsh, halting, and the word wasn't so much a greeting as a rasping cough that set his lungs on fire and his skull pounding.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, supporting his head when bed-weakened muscles refused to, and tilting it up slightly. A straw touched his bottom lip, and he fervently latched onto it; the water was lukewarm and soothing. He wanted to drain the cup, but his stomach threatened to object after a few swallows, so he stopped.

"Better?"

Tristan nodded as the drink was taken away, and his father’s hand helped him back down onto the pillow. His eyes slipped shut.

He heard a faint click, followed by a muffled voice.

_"Yes, General?"_

"He's awake," Julian replied.

And then he wasn't.

* * *

The fourth time was the _first_ time he realized he couldn't feel his legs.

Strangely, this revelation did not bother him as much as the fact that he was alone to discover it.

* * *

Usually, though, there were visitors.

"You look 'bout ready to burst, Margorie.”

His tongue felt thick in his mouth; the words came out syrupy.

"Great leaping goddess," the woman cursed, snatching up the remote and switching off the TV (tattooing, this time). She tried and failed to stand, opting instead to shuffle the chair noisily to the side of the bed. He winced at the sound, and she apologized as she took his hand.

He later found out it was the second thing he’d said in almost eight months.

He followed it with, "Whatcha havin'?"

Margie smiled, and cried, and pressed her cheek into his palm. "A boy."

* * *

Sensation returned. Slowly, but it returned. And he was grateful.

As an added bonus, his PT nurse was a hulking bear of a man whose pep talks often tripped along the lines of "Get you a pillow, Sir?" and “Well sure, if you call _that_ a ‘sit-up’.”

It was exactly the sort of flirtatious shit-talking he needed to start feeling normal again, really.

* * *

"How much do you remember?"

Tristan shook his head and stared past Leo, out the open window. It was autumn, and the breeze had a bite to it. He watched a V of geese disappear into the distance, headed south for warmer climes.

"Not much," he said, and it was mostly true. He pushed the button to raise his bed up a little more. His legs gave a wicked tingle in response, and he wiggled his toes to disrupt the feeling. "Final orders, and the first few Gates. The rest…”

_…Shard’s cutoff scream and then the sizzle and crack when the Gate failed and then Vega was bellowing / lurching / heaving and oh!goddess there was no recovering from that but the sound she made when he mercifully rammed his dagger into her skull was-_

He shook his head again; rubbed the creases in his forehead with both hands. He didn't want to think about that.

Leo was fidgeting with the arm of the chair. He had the look of a man that wanted desperately to say something, but couldn't quite get the words out of his mouth. So,

"How many did we lose?" Tristan prompted.

Leo dropped his gaze. "Scores."

"Westwood," he prodded.

"Fifty-seven thousand, one-hundred and six, Sir." It was a rush of numbers, delivered only because his CO had commanded it. Tristan turned his head away as though struck.

"Shit," he breathed.

A heavy silence fell. He heard Leo scuffing his feet on the tiles, then an unmistakable sniffle, and finally,

"Aunna."

Tristan's head fell back against the mattress; eyes clenched shut.

He wept.

* * *

 _His sister looked at him, and offered a wan smile before resting her head back on his shoulder. It was a rare endearment,_ _especially_ _in public, and caught him off-guard; took a moment for him to wrap an arm around her in return._

_"You looked happy," he confessed at length. "I held stuff back, and I shouldn’t have. Because you looked happy, and I don’t think I’ve seen that since we were kids. I didn’t want to take it away from you.”_

_And that was the heartbreaking truth — over the past few years he’d watched a quiet heart slowly inhabit her; hadn’t known her to smile, to laugh so freely since childhood._

_She was silently contemplative before saying, “You weren’t wrong.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “Life was .. good. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get back there.”_

_He felt a jolt of concern then, deep to his bones, and looked at her sharply. She ducked out of his hold before he could formulate a retort, though._

_“Go on,” she said, making a small gesture to Leo before walking backward a few strides, taunting. “Plenty of available bodies to knock boots with. Best get to revelin’, Specialist.”_

_Tristan felt his worried expression morph to incredulity, and flipped her a rude salute with a laugh before heading out to the lawn, willing to let it go for the moment…_

_When she found him there later though, he’d sunk pretty well into an introspection verging on a world class brood. He barely registered she was there until she ruffled her fingers through his hair, her tone teasing when she asked,_

_“You holding up ok?”_

_He suspected she was giving him shit because he was sitting_ _here_ _, and not tucked away in an alcove with some infantry beefcake; and now his slightly inebriated brain was wondering the same thing, really, except it also kept trying to figure out where it knew the leggy brunette on stage from because sweet goddess she was stunning-_

 _But then his sister looked at him, and slumped in her seat, and it fucking_ _killed_ _him._

_“I really am sorry, Aunna,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest. “I know how badly you wanted out.”_

_“Oh, no,” she said, making to get up. “ Fuck maudlin. We’re not Corwin. None of this ‘drunk, morbid, and bitter’ bullshit, savvy?” _

_His eyes flicked up at her, and he quirked a smile. “Yeah, alright.”_

_So he sat up straight, downed his beer, and motioned a passing waitress for another; saw Aunna indicate one for herself. Then they reminisced, and had a good laugh over it, and when their drinks arrived he finally decided to take a shot by asking,_

_“So, you wanna tell me about him yet?”_

_She fixed him with a perplexed stare; first one eyebrow climbing, then both pinching in. He leaned back into the L of the bench, bent a knee up to rest on the seat between them, and returned her gaze with supreme nonchalance. Beverage capped by one hand, he spread his arms out in a T across the benchbacks, completely open._

_“Or her,” he added with a shrug. “No judgment here.”_

_She snorted, smirked, and looked to the stage, raising her pint to her lips._

_“What’d I say about getting maudlin?”_

_And there it was again, that gut-deep concern._

_Because she was talking like she didn’t expect to come back._

_“Aunna.” He pitched his words as low as he could and still be heard. He needed to understand. “What are you not telling me?”_

_She sighed, and propped her head up on her fist before looking at him. “I think Oberon’s teaching me a lesson. He wasn’t exactly happy when I resigned my commission, you know.”_

_“Still received a Commendation, though. A shiny bronze one, about yea big,” he approximated with his hands briefly before letting them drape over the benchbacks again, “with a point at one end. Has a name and everything.”_

_Her half-grin was tight. “I remember. I was there.”_

_He waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, he was inclined to offer his own observation._

_“You…”_

_He chewed the inside of his lip a moment, then started again. Because Ghenesh was A Topic, and usually ended in a row, but she_ _had_ _to know…_

 _“What happened all those years ago,” he continued, his face creased and pleading, “that was_ _not_ _your fault. It was tragic, but you were never to blame for surviving it. So maybe…” He hesitated, then tilted his head and gave her a hopeful expression. “Maybe this isn’t what you think it is. Maybe it’s his heavy-handed way of offering you closure.”_

_He knew her slow smile was placating, masquerading as genuine._

_But it was a start._

* * *

He'd been in contact with her when the world erupted; was blinded by it into dropping the call, had felt the violent concussion through the ground from several klicks away.

He remembered _that_ now, too.

It’d happened right before something tried to rip his spine out.

* * *

When he was able to sit unassisted, he requested a list of his unit’s dead, and a ream of official stationery. Between PT sessions and visitations, Tristan wrote to the families of every fallen member of the Rowan Vert; included those from his JTF with the Scarlet Acolytes for good measure. Doing it was more than a matter of honour and remembrance. He buried each of his Comrades-in-Arms with a green wax seal.

He had no intention of going back into the service, though. Just the thought of it made his heart race and his stomach churn and he could never seem to get warm enough to stave off the cold sweats; and then he’d seethe over the fact that it was _this_ _fucking_ _war_ , of all things, that had brought him so much closer to his sister-

_…the nightmares were the worst part: the endless parade of mangled faces and blackened grins, charred to a rictus by peeling flesh, empty sockets accusing him - hating him - for leading them into that hell and then having the audacity to survive and fuck if he didn’t understand her reticence now, understand her shame…_

-and then taken her away.

* * *

Christian Avery Westwood was born on the cusp of winter, bright and healthy and perfect. Leo and Margie brought the youngest and future Lord Balfax to visit on a Sunday afternoon, and they laughed at the endless blackmail material that was Leo wheeling Tristan around the garden with a newborn in his arms.

Tristan smiled so much his cheeks hurt, seeing in the pink smooth face all the futures of all the worlds. And when his oldest friend asked him to be Guardian Father, he cradled the cherub to his chest and responded with all sincerity,

"Brother, it would be an honour."

* * *

 _“And this one,” Tristan hooked a thumb at Leo, “said ‘I’m gonna marry that woman’. Like it was a fucking_ _prophecy_ _.”_

_“It was the way she just .. laid him out.”_

_Leo always gesticulated adoringly when talking about Margie — moreso after he’d had a few drinks. It was one of those deeply endearing qualities his best friend possessed, that he loved so openly. So fiercely._

_“Wasn’t knocking it,” Tristan stated into his glass, resting back on one elbow, stretching his legs out long in a casual sprawl. “Bit envious, honestly.”_

_It’d been a slow reveal, this desire toward domesticity. He felt he’d always valued family and service equally in the past. But if Leo getting married had been a moment of clarity, it only came after watching his restless older sister settle into a peaceful life in Shadow._

_So when Aunna gave him a willowy smile and said, “Not to spew platitudes, T. But they’re out there. They’ll find you,” Tristan actually snorted._

_“I thought we declared a moratorium on maudlin?” he asked._

_But then she looked at him, considering. And he tilted his head slowly in invitation. Because he suspected she was ready to share, and wanted her to know he was open to listening._

_Finally: “His name was Martin,” she said. “And I think I loved him.”_

* * *

Eight weeks after waking up, Tristan checked himself out of the hospital. Not _entirely_ against medical advice, but pretty close.

He paused in the mists of a winter morning just outside the lobby, pulled his collar up against the cold, and contemplated where to go from here. His head was a mess, he acknowledged this; and he needed not just time, but the right environment to straighten it out.

In the end he limped his way around the corner, and shifted Shadow toward Malwain. There was never a shortage of things to do in the House of Flynt, after all. Livestock required handling, crops wanted tending. Time at Willow Trace would give him the structure he needed - a daily rhythm as steady as his former military life - _and_ allow him to funnel his grief into something productive as he processed it.

“That’s .. a really healthy attitude, actually,” Leo said when Tristan called to tell him. “I’m impressed.”

“And you thought that Psych class I took in OFC was a waste of time,” Tristan jibed, good-naturedly.

“Never called the class ‘a waste of time’,” Leo countered, “just the reason you signed up for it in the first place.”

“Ah, Ethan.” Tristan affected a wistful look, “Yeah, he was fun. And I don't regret a minute of it. But sitting the rest of that course was definitely worth the post-grad enrollment because hey: Look at me now.”

Leo shared his sardonic look, and they both felt the atmosphere of the trump contact shift.

“I still have some leave available,” Leo finally said. “If you-”

“No, Leo.” Tristan shook his head, once. “Save that for family stuff-”

“ _You’re_ family,” Leo cut in, with conviction. “ _She_ was family. You don’t have to do this alone, T.”

Tristan fell silent, sighed, and fixed his friend with a blank gaze.

“I don’t have to do it _at all_ , really.” He shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “Just some guy she knew in Shadow, after all. Chances are, time flow between places as flexible as it is, he’s already moved on. Why bother?”

His expression turned imploring then, and he continued, “Because the person she was, there? _That’s_ who she was always meant to be, Leo. I _feel_ it. So that’s where I want to say goodbye to her, even if he’s not there for me to offer closure to.”

Leo sat back and folded his arms, considering. Eventually, he nodded.

“Ok.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs, gave Tristan an earnest gaze of his own. “You call me, though. Let me know?”

“Sure,” Tristan nodded. “If for nothing else, at least a quick lift home.”

“Still not your livery service, asshole,” Leo smirked back.

* * *

Tristan halted his foxhunter on a small rise at the edge of the lawn, and took a long minute to observe the acreage, clock the house and the barn. The property was well placed, easily defensible, but more open than he’d been expecting because…

…because the weather was warm, humid; liquid and sweet; so much like the Buckden and so permeated with Aunna’s presence he felt gut-punched.

But this wasn’t Willow Trace. It was Avens Rest.

Well, not really. He had to acknowledge that the residence was a good deal smaller, and there were far fewer trees on the horizon than Arden; but the feeling was that of their childhood home, and it was beautiful.

As he watched, a figure stepped out onto the porch and openly returned his observation. When Tristan didn’t move, it strolled casually down the front steps and toward the barn; reappeared at the end of it a few moments later, and leaned against the doorframe, an invitation. Tristan heeled his horse forward, and dismounted at the end of the paddock.

The man was on the smaller side, maybe five-foot seven, but carried himself taller. His features were familiar - sharp and almost delicate, bright blue eyes and a mop of long, sandy blonde hair, undercut and tied up into a knot, with a shadow of overnight stubble on his jaw - and he could see his sister’s influence so clearly in the well-schooled expression, it hurt.

The man (Martin, he assured himself; this _had_ to be Martin) gave Tristan a contemplative once-over of his own as he fished a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his slacks, extracted and lit one, inhaled then blew sideways. He closed his eyes and scratched his forehead, chin tilting down.

Finally: “Hello, Tristan.”

And he wanted to ask: _You know me?_ But when the guy lifted his face again, he looked so desolate to see him that Tristan had no doubt he knew _exactly_ what this visit meant.

“Get you a drink?” Martin asked, tilting his head back through the barn toward the house.

“Sure,” Tristan responded, voice faded. “Thanks.”

He stripped the tack from his horse, and let her loose in one of the paddocks before following his host up the hill to the residence.

It was bittersweet, walking into his sister’s home for the first time. He’d caught glimpses of rooms in the background of their calls, all warm and full of life. But now the place had the stagnant air of having been closed up for a while, and lacked the lived-in feel that came with sundries and personal touches. Indeed, when Martin led him through the front hall to the sitting room, a fine cloud of dust rose up when he pulled a sheet off of a sofa, and gestured for Tristan to take a seat before moving to uncover the liquor cabinet.

“How did you know someone was here?” Tristan asked. Because it was obvious Martin did not live here, but had still been close enough to respond pretty quickly to his arrival.

“Perimeter alarm,” he supplied. His hand selected a decanted amber liquor, and brought it over to the sofa with two tumblers; sat at the other end and turned slightly inward; didn’t bother uncovering the coffee table before using it; filled the glasses generously and handed one over. 

It was good, sweet and smokey, and burned his throat pleasantly on the way down. They drank in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Eventually Martin finished his glass, and reached to refill it; offered the decanter to Tristan, who accepted and followed suit. 

When he looked up again, Martin was holding his tumbler between his knees, body curled forward, elbows on thighs. He was swirling it contemplatively, the liquid nearly coming up over the lip.

“I’m going to ask a question,” he finally said, with a forthright tone. “You’re welcome to do the same, but I'd like to go first, if I may.”

Tristan had expected that, if not exactly in the manner of Martin’s direct approach; found he respected it, and suspected this was not unusual behaviour; that it was probably one of the things that had attracted Aunna in the first place. So he eased back into the corner of the sofa and rested an arm across the back; open, ready to receive.

“Did sh-” Martin’s voice clicked audibly, and he swallowed before taking the query to a different track. “Was it worth it?”

Tristan dropped his head, genuinely dismayed. “Time will tell if our price was too steep.”

He saw Martin chew his lips before nodding, let the silence play out while the man filled his glass a third time, and got to his feet. He crossed to pull the cover from a standing cabinet, opened it to reveal a stack of stereo equipment, flipped a couple of switches and dropped the needle on whatever had last been played — a marching drum beat, joined by a high guitar, then:

_I can’t believe the news today. I can’t close my eyes and make it go away-_

Martin, who had been turning, halted abruptly and visibly paled; went back and lifted the arm; exchanged the album for something with a soothing strum and a melodic male voice, as comforting as it was melancholy. He then returned to his space on the sofa, and slumped into it, head resting over the top with his eyes closed.

After several beats, Tristan ventured, “Can I be honest, Martin?”

His eyes opened, slanted Tristan’s direction, and he looked somewhat amused by the question.

“Sure,” he said.

Tristan scrubbed the back of his neck with a palm before continuing. “I honestly wasn’t expecting to find you here,” he confessed. “But I have, and I don’t know what to do with that. Which is a very strange feeling. It’s not something I’m used to.”

He saw Martin tense slightly, mask it pretty well in sitting up and finishing his drink, setting the empty glass down.

“She asked me to be here,” he stated, lowly. “I told her I would. When the alarm went off…”

The statement faded. He lifted and held the stopper over the decanter, giving Tristan a querying look. Tristan shook his head, so Martin dropped it into place.

“She talked about having you over, you know,” he continued, hefting the liquor and taking it back to the cabinet. “I’m fairly certain she was serious about it, so I don’t feel guilty in saying you’re welcome to stay, if you want. The place is legally paid for, so you wouldn’t be squatting; lawn maintenance comes Tuesday and Friday.”

Tristan heard the implied dismissal in the offer, however, and finished his own drink as he rose.

“Thank you, but no,” he replied, handing Martin the empty tumbler when he reached for it, and following him out of the room. There was a heart-heavy moment when their eyes met back in the front hall, and Tristan felt his face crease into a question: _Gonna be ok?_

Martin shrugged before responding. “I suspected, so I suppose confirmation is welcome,” he said. Then, “I’ll get to ok again eventually, right?”

And he offered Tristan his hand, a friendly closure. Tristan shook it firmly.

“Good luck, Martin,” he said.

“Yeah,” Martin replied. “You too, Tristan.”

* * *

Tristan called Leo from the barn. “Honey.”

“Fuck you,” Leo chuckled, but held out a hand anyhow.

* * *

Martin washed the tumblers, dried them thoroughly, and returned them to the liquor cabinet. Made to draw the sheet back over it-

-aborted the motion. Reached back into the cabinet instead, and pulled out a dark green bottle wrapped in a net of gold leaf. He uncorked it, and didn’t bother with a glass; just tipped it up to his lips and took a large pull as he strode to, then flopped across the sofa.

So, _that_ had just happened…

He tipped the bottle again.

* * *

_"Why go?" He rested back, spreading out on the hardwood. "That is, if you're convinced that taking part in this war is going to get you killed, then why do it?"_

_Her expression was nonplussed. "Because I have to."_

_He was unconvinced. She clearly didn’t want to do this - had_ _cried_ _, for fuck’s sake - and he’d never known her to consent to_ _anything_ _against her will. So he pressed._

_"Is this one of those 'Military Things' that I don’t understand, because I haven’t served?"_

_She shook her head. "No."_

_"Is this some ingrained 'Amber Loyalty' I missed out on, because I grew up in Rebma?"_

_She shrugged, and gave a small, humorless smile. "Not that I'm aware of. But unlikely.”_

_"Then don't go."_

_She turned her head away and sighed. "It's not that simple."_

_And yeah, it was a little unfair of him to try to force a simple solution. When he thought back on all those times, early on, that he’d felt like a welcome distraction, he was certain that this was one of the things she’d been mulling over - in some capacity or other - for years._

_"This is how he'll get the last word, Marty," she said, as if to confirm his conclusion. "I_ _may_ _be damned if I do, but I'm_ _certainly_ _damned if I don't."_

* * *

He roused with a sharp inhale, shook off an odd sense of déjà vu when he heard the album skipping the last groove ( _thipsss, thipsss, thipsss_ ); put down the half-empty bottle and scrubbed his hands over his face before standing. He shut off the stereo, closed the cabinet, re-covered all the furniture.

Then he took the bottle with him, and made a lazy circuit of the house.

He’d listed his place in Burbank the morning after she left; sold it by the following afternoon, and a moving truck had unloaded its meagre contents in Keene a week later.

And it had been ok for a while, just passing time. He worked on some music projects, and dabbled in the emergent cyberspace, and occasionally took George out for a ride to shake off cabin fever. Sometimes he missed her so hard his teeth ached, or he’d wake up at some ungodly hour with the memory of her head in his lap and have to work himself over to get back to sleep. But life was generally tolerable.

Then one morning, about eighteen months in, he’d sat up from a dreamless slumber with the fully-formed idea of how to construct a perimeter alarm that was sensitive to Pattern energy, but also tethered to him so he could feel it alert in another Shadow.

He sat on the knowledge for a few months because, without another Pattern user handy, he had no way of testing it; and he’d told her he would be here. Yet he was certain, down to his core, that it was sound. So he’d eventually packed up their more personal effects, hired a lawn crew and caretaker for regular maintenance, loaded George down like a pack mule (the sainted beast), and gone back to Texorami.

It’s why there were no photos on the walls, now; no overt reminders of her.

It’s why, as he ascended the steps with the steady motions of the introspective, he took in this place which had been her home - _their_ Home - and felt hollow.

* * *

_“You can’t be serious.”_

_Aunna looked down and back over her shoulder, hammer in hand, nail between her lips. “What?”_

_“That one?” He pointed to the framed 16x20 photograph, then the wall at the top of the stairs she’d climbed a step stool in front of, “There?”_

_She pondered the print: a landscape shot of them in the crowd on day two of Festival, taken from the pavilion wings, stage right, with the band blurred in the foreground, and the angle of the lights into the lens tinting everything golden. She was slightly hunched, hair fanning mid-toss, shirt clinging damp at the collar; he was facing the stage, and at a glance appeared to be fully engaged in the band, but his eyes were slanted toward her and he looked coy because off-camera-_

_She gave him a stilted frown. “Oh, please,” she replied, taking the nail between her fingers. “Nobody knows what happened right after-”_

_“Right_ _after_ _?” He laughed, motioning. “Your hand was in my pants_ _right_ _then_ _!”_

_She waved dismissively and made a ‘pshaw’ sound. “Nobody knows that, either.”_

_There was something daring about her expression, Martin thought. So he took a step back, folded his arms critically, and looked at it from an outsider’s point-of-view; realized as he did that he understood why she wanted it here, in pride-of-place._

_Because sure, she had her hand wrapped around him behind that wall of people; had dragged him into the trees and slithered to her knees with lips parted not long after. But at that moment she just looked wild with the music, and he her adoring tether, and really wasn’t that their whole relationship in a snapshot?_

_She smirked at him, held the nail to the wall, paused with the hammer poised, and waited for him to make it clear._

_“Inch to the right,” he said._

* * *

Martin halted at the top of the steps and took a drink, eyes sliding over the blank space on the wall by the open door of the master suite; and even though it’d been nearly thirteen years since he’d lived here, he could still hear the memory of her-

_(jesus all the ways she could moan his name when she came)_

-and he walked into the room that’d become his studio instead.

He uncovered a desktop computer and switched it on, turned to the dozen boxes stacked neatly along one foam-baffle wall, and unstacked a few as the system booted up; rummaged through them while it screeched its connection to the internet.

After several minutes he’d amassed a small pile of items: photographs mostly, which he’d removed from frames; an album full of colourful loose papers; a slightly larger album with glossy laminates; a length of aquamarine cloth. He picked up a cigar box to put the loose photos in, wrapped the cloth around his neck like a scarf, and gave the rest of the boxes a final prod.

He then sat down to send the email that had been waiting in his outbox since his last visit. It was addressed to a local realtor, giving clearance to list the property for sale, as-is.

Finally he gathered everything under one arm and, with the mostly empty bottle in his fist, walked back to Texorami.

* * *

Rex had asked about her, once.

_“Whatever happened to that Kate girl?” he said. “I liked her for you.”_

_It was the first time Martin noticed there was more grey than pigment in Rex’s beard; that his head was bald naturally now, rather than shaved that way; that the laugh lines were deep crevasses across his face after years of repeated use._

_His eyes were sharp in there, though. He cast them on Martin and added, very lowly, “What are you, man?”_

_The silence drug out long before Martin spoke._

_“I’m gonna go,” he said. “I’m leaving you the Nail. It’s always been more yours than mine, anyway.”_

_Rex nodded, solemn. “Will we..?”_

_He let the question trail off. Martin shook his head._

_“Probably not.” He stood then, and held out his hand. “It’s been an honour, Christopher.”_

Rex had stared, stood, and then nudged the hand aside to fold his friend in a hug.

* * *

It turned out Aunna’s advice about relocation and papers was pretty sound, in the end. He’d waited a few years in other Shadows wherein a decade or so passed in Texorami before dropping by again; only for a day or two, feeling the place out, deciding if he still liked it; eventually determined he did. So he bought an office building on the northwest coast, upgraded all of its aging tech and fixtures, then rented out the lower four units to a local R&D firm, and set himself up in the penthouse, in perpetuity.

The sun was just beginning to set when he got back there. Martin put his reclaimed items down on the piano bench, draped the cloth over a corner of the sofa, and set the empty bottle by the sink. He leaned against the counter and pulled out his cigarettes, eye falling on the food he’d abandoned at the coffee table when the alarm had been tripped that morning and lit him up like a live wire-

 _heart in his throat “ogod sweetheart aunna i” and he’d say it because he should’ve said it_ _sooner_ _should’ve said it_ _ before _

-really, the fact that he’d put on shoes was impressive.

“Pause playback,” he said before striking the lighter, inhaling. “Log results.”

His ‘Acoustic Breakfast’ playlist would have ended hours ago, but the algorithm he’d made had extrapolated, and culled the bandwidth, and continued piping music long enough that it’d strayed pretty far from baseline. He’d be curious to review the track history later, and see where the transition to synthoscream had originated.

“Launch playlist ‘This Is My Mood Now’.”

The tiny neural interface behind his left ear gave a small trill as it processed his request, and Martin set about cleaning up the spoiled meal. Around him a raspy male crooned: _We passed upon the stair, spoke of was and when…_

And it was Cobain’s voice from the speakers, but also Bowie’s voice in his memory, and Aunna’s voice in his ear-

_“Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend…”_

_“Good god, woman,” he laughed. “Who was your vocal coach?”_

_“Hey!” She jabbed a finger into his chest, all mock indignation, “I could have_ _ perfect _ _pitch if I wanted to, you know.”_

_His hand closed slowly around hers; exerted subtle pressure to direct it down to her side; moved in close to pin it up behind her back._

_“Don’t change a thing,” he purred, lyrical. “Sometimes, I like the way you sing.” And her mouth opened eagerly for him when he-_

“Skip track,” he bit out.

_Green plastic watering can for a fake Chinese rubber plant…_

He pulled the tie from his hair, scrubbed his fingers through it roughly, then tucked it behind his ears. He drew hard on the cigarette, and eyed the empty green bottle.

 _Fuck_ , this was awful. How had he thought having an answer would be _better?_

His brain kept circling back to her, fixated on dredging up shared moments with the slightest provocation, and he was suddenly deeply grateful that she’d never been _here_ ; that he’d built up enough of a callus for losing people and places and objects of affection by now that he hadn’t felt compelled to stay any longer in Keene; that he’d relocated most of the pieces of her that meant something to him years ago.

The cigar box, those albums full of concert fliers — that was recovering the last bit of them, bringing it all under one roof for safe keeping.

Only…

_“Stay?” She clenched his fingers with hers, voice plaintive, green eyes liquid in the moonlight. “Be here, when…”_

Only the person he’d found in Keene was her brother. And the sight of him, the bitter truth of his appearance…

She was gone.

_She was gone?_

She was gone .. and Tristan had known to come tell him.

Martin groaned lowly, and extinguished his cigarette. Tristan had known to come tell him, which meant the horse was out of the barn, and the next few days were probably setting up to be more uncomfortable than he’d been prepared to manage.

As if prompted, a small chime in the background of the music alerted him to an unread message, and Martin waved a hand at the air. A holographic window popped up, at eye level, and projected: MISTER KING is requesting entry - allow / decline.

It was originally timestamped seven hours earlier, but had just been updated with an additional (?) in a superimposed bubble.

Martin selected 'allow', and moved to the door.

* * *

_For a moment, it was like staring in a funhouse mirror._

_Random was shorter than him, with a lank cropping of straw-coloured hair and wily blue eyes set in narrow features; lean build carried with an easy swagger that was clearly a tempered, cocksure bravado._

_“Can I come in?” he asked._

_Martin, frozen in the doorway, took a deep breath while he considered, then stepped aside._

_He didn’t offer a tour, but he did pour them drinks._

_And they talked. Or, really,_ _Random_ _talked; Martin mostly listened._

_He learned about what they were calling the Patternfall War (which they were still tallying numbers for, there had been so many points of entry); and how Brand had dragged Deirdre into the Abyss after she stabbed him in the throat; and that his apparently batshit crazy Uncle Corwin had gone off and tried to draw his own Pattern when he thought Oberon had failed to repair the original, which-_

_“-had been damaged by the Blood of Amber. It’s how the Courts were able to get to our doorstep.”_

_Then Random reached into the pocket of his battered RAF jacket, and pulled out a 3x4 piece of cardstock with a slit through the center. His gaze shifted a moment between the face of the card and his son. Martin held out a hand._

_“It’s inactive,” Random said as he passed it over. “Not sure if the damage did it, or the manner in which it was used. But that .. That is_ _ you_ _, yes?”_

_At fifteen, maybe: Rebman Court attire, wide blue eyes and a tumble of sandy-blonde hair, a familiar weary smirk curling his lips. Even now he felt his mouth turn to wear it._

_“I’d say I’m surprised you knew, only…” He gestured to their reflections in a mirror-fronted cabinet while passing the card back._

_Random gave a low chuckle of concession, then turned serious. “Can you tell me who did it?”_

_“Sure,” Martin shrugged and sat back in his chair. “But what good will it do? Damage done and, apparently, repaired-”_

_“Was it him?” Random asked, tossing another trump on the coffee table between them._

_A red-haired man in green brooded up at him. Martin about flipped the chair in standing to get away._

_“What the FUCK,” he barked, jabbing a finger at it, eyes wide. Random looked baffled by his violent reaction, but picked up the second card and slipped both back into his pocket._

_“Why are you here, Random?” Martin’s voice was tight, unfamiliar to him. “You’ve had_ _ years _ _to find me — a good chunk of them I was a stone’s drop away. What’s changed?”_

_His father gave him a long, thoughtful look, then asked, “How did you get to this place?”_

_Martin narrowed his eyes, “Christ, y’all really_ _are_ _incapable of answering direct questions-”_

_“I’ll answer,” Random assured. “Just, humor me. How did you end up here? In Texorami?”_

_“Pattern sent me here,” he said. “When I got to the center. Dropped me near Port Laskill.”_

_Random’s expression turned fond, as if in memory, and then something like proud._

_“Were you really sixteen?”_

_“Three days from.” Martin rested a hand on the back of the chair, but was disinclined to sit again. He used the position to loom a little though. Fixed Random with a level stare. “Your turn.”_

_The man sighed, nodded, and stood. He took his empty glass to the bar and helped himself; lifted the decanter in silent inquiry to his son. When Martin gave a curt head shake, Random returned to the sofa without it._

_“It’s a very strange story, but the short version is, somehow, I’ve become King.”_

_Martin suddenly wished he’d taken Random up on the refill offer._

_“Oh,” he said._

* * *

This time, Random was sifting thoughtfully through a palm full of chits when Martin opened the door. He slipped them into his pocket and looked up at his son.

“Ready?”

And honestly the _last_ thing he wanted right now was a tête-à-tête with his father. But this had been a _planned_ visit, and they _were_ trying to get to know each-other, and the guy _was_ the fucking King of Amber now, so…

“Had something come up this morning,” Martin replied, stepping aside in invitation. “Just got home. Give me ten.”

Random shrugged casually and crossed to the bar; poured himself a drink and took a seat on the sofa. Martin gathered the items he’d retrieved from Keene and carried them into his bedroom; set them atop the dresser, under the photo from Festival.

_He saw the moment she Got It — the Sound he was always trying to explain to her. She squeezed his hand, then she looked up at him, and she was beaming like the dappled sun. His returning smile was so broad, it almost hurt._

_“Right?”_

_She laughed, joyous. “It’s a lot!”_

_“Too much?”_

_She shook her head “no”, and wrapped her left arm around his middle-_

“Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

Random’s voice from the front room shook him out. But it was still work, turning away; walking to the closet.

“I have,” Martin made himself call back; stripped off his shirt and pulled on a clean one, added braces and a vest. He returned to the front room while tucking his tails in, where Random’s unspoken _‘and?’_ was written plainly on his features.

“I’m not interested,” Martin finally said, looking his father square in the eye. “I’ll go with you to see my grandmother, to help broker a peace by showing support for your Coronation. But given the choice, I won’t be your Heir.”

“And if she demands it?”

Martin scoffed. Didn't even try to hide it. Random raised an eyebrow.

“She won’t,” Martin said. “She’ll still hope to eventually marry me off for an alliance in the Coral Reach. Your recognition just adds value.”

Random smirked a little. “That’s what Vialle said.”

Martin paused in the act of buttoning his cuffs to make a _Well there you have it_ motion.

“She’s a smart woman, V,” he responded, resuming the task. “Let _her_ help you with the Heir situation. You don’t need me.”

For a moment Martin wondered if he’d overstepped their fledgling familiarity, because Random became very quiet behind his drink. But then he laughed, and gave a small nod.

“I suppose that’s valid,” he replied at length, and drained his glass.

“So how are we doing this?” Martin asked, giving his sleeves one last tug at the wrists. “Does she know we’re coming, or..?”

“Llewella is standing by to present us to Court,” Random supplied, setting his empty tumbler aside and getting to his feet. “How we get to _her_ is up to you.”

Martin considered the options: ride through Shadow, or teleport by trump. Neither sounded entirely pleasant in his current mindset, but maybe a quick contact wouldn’t be so bad if it (a) was with someone he trusted, and (b) meant he wouldn’t have to make small talk for a few hours instead. So,

“Go ahead and call,” he told his father.

Random did not question; just pulled a trump from his pocket and pondered it a moment. The music faded as Martin carefully removed the neural interface, put it in its protective case, and dropped the case into his pocket. After a moment, Random looked up expectantly.

Martin steeled himself against the rapidly building anxiety, and put a hand on Random’s shoulder. A ghost-like image of his Aunt Llewella formed before them, looking watery and serene.

“Breathe out,” she advised, and extended a hand to him.

* * *

And honestly, he’d only intended to stay as long as it took to smooth things over between Random and Moire; to accept his additional title (Duke of Kolvir), and give an official statement regarding his choice to decline being named as Random’s Heir-

But then Llewella asked if he’d join her for tea in the gardens while the Crowns pinned down the details of their new alliance, and being back in _any_ part of Rebma for the first time in decades was odd enough that he accepted. She ordered a selection of finger foods as she settled into a chez; crossed her ankles delicately with her hands in her lap, and fixed him with a pleasant smile.

“It is so good to see you, Martin,” she offered at length.

“Likewise, Llew” he responded, kindly. Lifted an ankle to rest on the opposite knee, and laced his fingers across his middle. “You look well.”

“As do you, considering.”

Martin stiffened. _Here it was. She was going to ask about-_

“I really should have assumed he was hiding something,” Llewella said, uncommonly bitterly. “Clarissa’s brood always were a duplicitous lot. But he had the Queen convinced he could find you, confirm if you’d survived the Pattern walk at the very least, maybe help you get home if you were stuck out in Shadow somewhere.” Her soft, seafoam green eyes settled on him, and her bitterness melted into regret. “She gave him leave to try, but I shouldn’t have trusted his stated intent as long as I did. I am sorry for that.”

Martin dismissed the notion with a small shake of his head, insisting, “None of that was your fault, Llewella. It’s current through the reef.” He smiled a little then, a bit of gallows humor slipping out. “Maybe if I hadn’t been such an impatient shit to get out of here, I’d have been less vulnerable in the first place. And your gift _did_ find me, eventually.”

Her face lifted into a grin. “It really was a long shot, sending it by courier. No way of knowing how far it’d have to travel, if it’d die off before finding you. But I’d hoped it would be worth the effort..?”

“Worth the effort,” Martin confirmed with a nod. “Thank you.” 

They whiled away some time discussing nothing of real importance, and when she continued to not ask him about Aunna, he started to think maybe Tristan was an anomaly; that it was possible she had told her brother at some point, and he’d kept her confidence. Considering the profile of Tristan he’d created from her stories over the years, the logic tracked.

All the same, when Random came to collect him so they could leave for Amber, Martin wasn’t sure if the spike of anxiety he felt was for the trump transport to the castle's courtyard, or the thought that maybe he and Aunna just weren’t common knowledge _in Rebma_.

The whole thing turned out to be a stupid concern, though. Random took him on a short tour of Amber Castle, and never implied knowledge nor inferred curiosity at any point, even while discussing which kin were currently in residence. In fact, he left his son at a guest suite with the parting remark that dinner was in a few hours, and he could meet more of the family then if he chose to stay; otherwise he was free to go when he wished.

“And how would I do that, exactly?” Martin asked with a weary smirk. “Isn’t there some sort of .. restriction? On being able to shift Shadow this close to the Pattern?”

“A-ha!” Random barked, pointing. Martin flinched in spite of himself. “I _knew_ you had to have done _some_ research.”

Martin took a steadying breath and willed his pulse to slow. He shrugged to cover. “I was frustrated, not reckless.”

Random’s face did something complicated, then smoothed into neutrality, and Martin suddenly remembered Aunna telling him about Mirelle - her childhood friend, Random’s older sister, his aunt - and how she’d attempted to walk the Pattern before she was ready, and how she’d perished doing it-

“Oh, shit. Dad-”

The words came out in a rush, then halted just as abruptly, startling him to silence even as Random lifted a hand.

“I know that’s not what you meant,” he assured. “But it’s not unfair. She was. Everyone always thought Aunna was the impulsive one, but Miri had her beat.”

And .. fuck. Hearing her name come out of his father’s mouth was gutting / soaring / marrow-deep longing, and Martin suddenly wanted very much to be alone. He felt his hand wrap around the doorknob on its own accord. Random noted the movement, and gave a small nod.

“To answer your question, however,” he said, “we have plenty of horses in the stable. If you choose to go, I can have one of the Rangers escort you to the Crixa. You can shift along any of the Golden Circle Paths from there.”

Martin forced a smile. It felt tight. “Thanks.”

Random looked about to say something else, but only nodded again and walked away as Martin opened the door; had turned the corner by the time he closed it.

Martin collapsed into the nearest chair. Bent double with his hands curled over his head — plane-crash style, braced for impact.

_“When I said I was ‘all yours' for the day, I wasn’t expecting you to trundle me off to Steampunk Siberia.”_

_“‘Token resistance only’,” he quoted over his shoulder at her, disembarking the zeppelin._

_She grumbled, and pulled the fur cap tighter down over her ears-_

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He was going to spin out. Could feel the current building beneath his skin like EMP. He felt choked by the air and _fuck_ he couldn’t grieve her _here_ but god _dammit_ he _needed to_ this chasm of Her was _eating him up_ -

There was a knock on the door.

He froze, breath and all. After a long pause, it sounded again: careful, but deliberate.

Martin slowly got to his feet. Slid the bolt. Swung inward.

Tristan stared at him from the threshold, fist slowly dropping.

And he was .. he was _dumbstruck_ , is what he was. Tristan, in his sharp-pressed Courtly appearance, looked positively _poleaxed_. And honestly, wasn’t _that_ the funniest fucking thing to happen in more than a goddamn decade?

Martin laughed. Laughed so hard his vision blurred, and tears streamed down his cheeks — it was _clearly_ hysterical, even to his own ears. Yet Tristan waited, puzzled but working through the pieces from his end, until Martin could finally draw breath enough to speak.

“We should probably talk,” he said.

Tristan gave a stilted, perplexed nod. “Yes,” he replied. ”We should.”

* * *

Martin stepped aside, gesturing him in. But Tristan shook his head, and held up a hand.

“Can I make an observation?” he asked instead.

“Sure,” Martin chuckled, bemused. “Why not.”

Or nervous laughter, because it was obvious the other man was coming out of his skin, he was so clearly uncomfortable here.

 _“He’s honest, and he cares — he’s a Good Person, Tristan.” The emphasis was deliberate when she looked at him; sincere when she added, “You_ _ know _ _how rare those are. And I don’t know if it would have lasted, but he still was - is - important to me.”_

“You look like you're one bad moment away from a meltdown,” Tristan said, “and I want to help you before you get there. So tell me.” He took a step back, disarming. “What can I do?”

“I…” Martin’s balk was slight, over almost before it took hold. “It’s-”

He raised two fingers to his temple in an achingly familiar gesture, then pulled it back and stared at his hand a moment before dropping it to the doorknob instead. His tone firmed, sounding more like the man he’d met in Shadow.

“I haven’t had time to process, Tristan,” Martin confessed, wretched beneath the feigned austere. “We met less than six hours ago, and today was _already_ on the books to be intense. Savvy?”

The word - the delivery - was a little tug at Tristan’s heart, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile with it-

But then the full weight of what he’d been told hit home, and he shrank.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry, Martin. I hadn’t realized.”

“How could you?” the other waved off. “But honestly, if you want to help me out, I’d really like to leave, and I could use a guide to the Crixa.”

“Done,” Tristan agreed, and turned to depart. “C’mon. We’ll raid the kitchen on our way to the stables.”

* * *

Leo had asked _How did it go?_ when he’d pulled Tristan through to Balfax Manor.

And Tristan had replied that he’d genuinely felt bad for That Martin Guy, because he clearly had cared enough to hold out a little hope, and was _definitely_ reeling from the news but being very stiff-upper-lip about it. Didn’t say much but was direct when he did; a pragmatist, just like she’d said. And yeah, he’d picked up some of Aunna’s mannerisms, which spoke to their longevity, but also _He kinda looked like you, actually. But smaller. And prettier._

And Leo had kicked him in the ass sidelong, which had prompted a good-natured scuffle, which ended when Margie had passed over a cooing Christian and domestic proximity had folded around him for a while-

“So imagine my surprise,” Tristan began, breaking the silence that had fallen between them after leaving the stables, “when, in a pique of nostalgia, I decide to join the family for dinner before heading back to Willow Trace. Only I turn the corner, and there’s that Martin guy I just met. Walking with the King of Amber. Calling him ‘Dad’.”

It was good to see him crack a smile when he ducked his head, even if it was directed inward.

“If it’s any consolation,” Martin replied, “she and I didn’t figure it out right away, either.”

* * *

“So, how _did_ you meet?”

Martin considered the question a moment. “Are you asking to confirm, or did she not tell you?”

“ _She_ told me I didn’t want her to answer that,” Tristan laughed. “Of course I suspect that’s because she was having difficulty filtering the pertinent information. We _were_ properly pissed at the time.”

“So if I told you she was scorching hot and completely untouchable, would that sound about right?”

Martin knew he and Tristan were going to be fine when he replied, “Honestly, I’d probably have been shocked to hear she was anything less.”

* * *

“Does anyone else..?”

Martin let the question hang; didn’t need to finish it, really. Tristan cottoned.

“Just Leo, so far as I know.”

Martin looked thoughtful for a moment. “Westwood, Lord Balfax.” When Tristan nodded, he added, “The three of you go way back.”

“Academy days for me and him; OFC for us and her. So yeah,” Tristan smiled. “A fair amount of time.”

“Were you stationed together in Deig’a at all?”

It was a cautious delivery, yet felt like it came from a place of knowledge. Still, Tristan considered his response carefully.

“We did a few cross-training drills with the Deigan Army, early on,” he finally said. “But I wasn’t a member of the 9th Cav.”

With a weary smile, Martin cut through any additional need for subterfuge. “She told me about Ghenesh, Tristan.”

And that, honestly, spoke more to her trust in this guy than anything else _ever_ could have.

* * *

“She’d talk about you, sometimes,” Martin admitted. They’d been traveling long enough that Arden Forest had closed around them, and he bent over the pommel to avoid a low-hanging branch.

Tristan chuckled, “Her brother: the 'heroic dumbass’?”

“Among other things,” Martin nodded, then added with a small smile, “all affectionately, of course.” He paused for a moment to enjoy the aesthetic, then: “You two grew up out here, yes?”

“When we weren’t in Malwain,” Tristan nodded, and directed his left hand southwest. “Avens Rest is about three klicks that way, as the fox runs.”

Martin swiveled slightly, taking in the different blends of sound, and wished the technology of his neural interface worked here because he would love to record it, let it roll around his head a while on restless nights.

“I can’t imagine…”

He trailed off. Contemplated what he was feeling, how he wanted to say it, then tried again. “She loved music. Especially _live_ music. Genre didn’t matter - crooner or ragecore or triphopera - she’d _bathe_ in it if it was live. It’s something we had in common. Our places were always full of Sound.”

“Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on, though,” Tristan offered, in good humor.

And Martin _really_ wanted to say _Oh, I don’t know. Given proper motivation…_ because it’s what he’d have said to _her_ after a comment like that-

-but it was a bit crass to say to her brother. So,

“Can’t tell when you’re one in a hundred thousand,” Martin shrugged, smiling. “No. I was going to say: I can’t imagine growing up in this,” he waved an encompassing hand, “and then leaving it behind. The sort of hole it’d put in someone’s aural existence - especially someone who loved to listen to things, like she did - it’s unfathomable to me.”

* * *

“Is it strange that there are questions I want to ask you,” Tristan started, “but keep thinking she’ll be unhappy if I let slip something you don’t already know?”

“Kept a good secret, Our Aunna,” Martin mumbled. No venom, just long-suffering.

Tristan gave him a commiserating smile. “She didn’t really talk about you until we were on the Front,” he continued. “But I knew there was _someone_ , well before then. Because there were times…”

_“Why are you calling the barn phone?” she asked when she’d snatched the receiver off the wall. Pause, a glance at her wristwatch, then, “I don’t know, an hour maybe? I’m-” Another pause, and her expression went a little glassy, and the smirk that started to tug her lips was tucked behind a fist before she told the handset, decisively, “I’ll be up in ten.”_

Tristan laughed to remember — then choked thinking how he’d closed that conversation with a remark about the merits of lubrication and the prostate, and promptly cleared his throat instead.

When Martin paused in the act of lighting a cigarette to pass him an almost sheepish glance in return, he tried not to wonder how often it’d gone that way.

* * *

“You _really didn’t react_ , though.”

Martin cocked an eyebrow at his companion’s non-sequitur. “Say again?”

“You.” Tristan shook his head. “A man you’ve never met shows up on a horse, and you don’t bat an eye.” He looked perplexed. “Why didn’t I notice that?”

Martin felt his face pull into bemusement. “You _do_ know we were in Kentucky, right? The self-proclaimed ‘Heart of Horse Country’,” he drawled. "Also, our entire conversation was in Thari. I figured you knew who I was."

“You _do_ remember the thing about my sister being morbidly secretive, right?” Tristan shot back with a wry smirk, then shrugged. “I knew it was horse property, but I never asked where it was, so language didn't factor.”

And that was an interesting response, considering-

“Wait.” Martin looked over sharply, his expression flattening. “Are you saying you’d _never_ been there before we met?”

Tristan started to nod, then turned it into a wavering head bob. “Just once, not long after things here really went to shit,” he admitted. “But it was very brief. I only saw the hayloft.”

“Huh,” Martin said. Because he’d always assumed-

But now Tristan looked quizzical, so,

“I guess I always assumed she just had you over when I wasn’t there.”

* * *

“You loved her.”

“Yes.” The word was a declaration; no hesitation until after, when Martin’s face went a bit distant and he dropped his chin. “Yes, I did.” He looked up, smiling wryly, “Took me a while to figure it out, though.” Then his expression clouded, and he added, despondent, “Took her even longer to see.”

And Tristan _wanted_ to assure Martin that she’d loved him, too. But who was he kidding? If the guy didn’t know already, it’d be a barbed consolation at this point.

Still,

“You know the last time I remember seeing her smile so much, we were kids?”

Martin shook his head, tilting it as if asking where this was going.

“She was _happy_ , Martin,” Tristan finally offered. “Gloriously, stupidly, recklessly happy. And considering how much she kept to herself, that was fucking _miraculous_.” He looked over then, all sincerity. “ _You_ did that.”

Martin kept his face averted, but Tristan could see his jaw working; his teeth chewing the inside of his lips. Then he drew on his cigarette to cover a shaky breath; stared fixedly at his horse's shoulder as he blew it out.

When he returned Tristan’s gaze, he looked misty, but pleased.

“Thank you,” he said.

* * *

The Crixa loomed up slowly: a six-sided monolith of carved stone in the middle of a woodland glenn, orb-lit and quiet this time of evening. Tristan eased his mount to a halt at its base. Martin made a slow circuit, reading all the sides, before joining him.

“So I suppose this is where we part ways,” Tristan said.

“S’pose so,” Martin nodded.

Neither man moved.

“Listen,” Tristan eventually resumed, leaning slightly, and reaching into his hip pocket. “If you ever wanna talk, reminisce, bitch, whatever-”

Martin lifted a hand abruptly. “No-”

The motion alone was sharp enough that Tristan immediately ceased moving altogether, giving over his full attention. Martin cringed slightly under that laser focus. It was a long, silent minute as they both softened their postures by degrees.

“Brand used you to damage the Pattern,” Tristan finally posited, “by stabbing you through a trump call.”

“Yes,” Martin confirmed. “He didn’t mean for me to survive. Your sister saved my life.”

Tristan withdrew his hand, empty. Martin gave him a wan smile of gratitude.

“I’d be open to the rest, though,” Martin prompted. “Talking. Reminiscing. Bitching. Whatever.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Then maybe I’ll travel more, now that I’ve retired.”

“Well, I know passing time on Shadow Earth is a pretty common thing, but I listed the place in Keene before I left, so…” Martin shrugged, giving Tristan one final smile, and holding out his hand. “If you ever find yourself in Texorami, look me up.”


	2. Chapter 2

_He carded his fingers into the sweated hair at her temple, stroked his other thumb across her damp brow. He felt the rise and fall of her head against his chest when he breathed; the warm puff of air across his pectoral when she did._

_It was a long while after she had settled into the low, slow breathing of deep sleep before he murmured,_

_“I love you.”_

“I love you, too,” she replied. Her hand pulled across his abdomen, slid up his side, briefly traced the line of his scar before smoothing over his chest and coming to rest on his bicep, her arm crossing his torso. “But this isn’t what happened.”

He shook his head. “No.” 

“But you wish it was.”

Martin sighed and opened his eyes. “End playback.”

The interface behind his left ear chirped, and the projection across his vision shifted fluidly — changed from the loft above The Rusty Nail, to the tech room in his penthouse. He sat up, folded a knee and rested an elbow on it, propped his forehead on the heel of his upturned hand; dangled his other leg over the side of the lounge.

He’d been very careful about not using memories of them as material for this project. But Marika had picked up the last of her things that morning, and she’d railed at him again on his inability to commit to their relationship (i.e. propose) after four years, and it’d put him in a vulnerable bit of headspace. Nobody to blame but himself, really, when Aunna made an appearance during testing as a result.

Still, he’d have to take a closer look at that log later. His algorithm shouldn’t be subverting the memory feed into a divergent narrative like that.

Martin unplugged from the system, hung the squidcap on the nearby monitor, and scrubbed a hand across his close-shorn hair as he stepped down. The light switched off when he exited the room, and the security door locked behind him. He crossed the hall into the bathroom, and ran the shower.

He tried to focus on the fact that it had been his most successful test to date. That he seemed to have solved both the vertigo issue _and_ the synesthesia in his last patch…

…and not the _bigger_ fact that he’d been reluctant to stop because he’d felt - _legitimately felt_ \- the memory of her hands on him, and immediately given over, just like he’d been trying to avoid.

Steam filled the room as he stripped. He pulled a disgruntled face at the mess he’d made of his skivvies before dropping them down the laundry chute. He hissed when he stepped under the jets, but adjusted nothing; just braced his hands against the wall and tipped his head down, let the scalding spray pound his neck and shoulders.

Maybe it was time for a change of scene. A brief respite from this self-imposed project. He was sure he’d finally managed to manipulate Texorami’s time ratio into something more in line with Malwain’s (how to do so had been an enlightenment like the perimeter alarm when it came; a subconscious six-year undertaking once he got started) because his last few letters from Tristan had arrived exactly one month apart, which was how they’d been written.

And Tristan sounded content. He’d accepted an advisory role at Malwain OFC, and moved into a place in the capital; led a wilderness survival course for a dozen wildly enthusiastic kids once a month, and a peer group for fellow trauma survivors at the Embassy Hospital on Monday nights. He waxed adoringly about his toddling guardson’s latest discoveries, and groused over banal family drama, and had a brief but fiery fling with a Murnese artillery officer after hooking up at an administration retreat (which in many ways absolutely _delighted_ Martin because it sounded _so goddamn familiar_ and honestly Tristan had _no clue_ how much he and Aunna had been alike in some aspects).

And every letter ended with the same Malwainese phrase: _Deschis_ _mereu doras_. Door’s always open. Which was ultimately the deciding factor, now. Because the only thing Martin didn’t know was what day it was there - or _time_ of day, for that matter - but since the only way for him to accurately find out was to go, and Tristan could hardly begrudge him if he arrived at some odd hour after such consistent insistence, his excuses for _not_ visiting at this point were nul.

So he gave himself a cursory scrub, shut off the water and toweled dry. He packed a few items as he dressed; kept his look classic Texorami, and left the leathers in the closet. Rang down to the valet for his ride.

At a last glance around, he pulled off his neural interface, and swapped it for the prototype he’d been working on which, he hoped, might _actually_ function in different Shadows. Then he headed to the lobby and, eventually, Malwain.

* * *

Tristan was just settling down with a cup of coffee and a novel, per day off tradition, when someone pulled the door bell. Surprised, he set the book on the end table, got back up, and carefully trotted down the narrow stairs, mug in hand.

“Door’s always open?” Martin asked by way of greeting.

“Always,” Tristan replied before stepping aside with a grin. “You look well.”

And he did, objectively speaking. His sandy blonde locks were gone, shorn short in an almost military crop, and he’d lost the last vestiges of softness around the edges; but he didn’t have the pinched, anxious look Tristan had last seen him wear, and the handshake was warmly confident.

“Thanks,” Martin replied, matching the smile but politely waving Tristan off when he offered to take his bag. “And likewise. Retirement suits you.”

Tristan looked down at his black running slacks and bare feet, his grey ‘(we like it rough)’ tee under an open blue cardigan, then stuffed his empty hand into one of the sweater’s pockets and gave a carefree shrug, raising his mug to his lips.

“I’m getting used to it,” he said, sipping before jerking his head up the stairwell. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure.” When Tristan led the way, Martin followed him, adding, “This place is more modest than I was expecting.”

“Thank you?” Tristan laughed. But he knew what Martin was getting at. He’d grown up in Avens Rest, at Willow Trace, around Amber Castle; had seen Aunna’s place on Shadow Earth. Their family didn’t usually do ‘modest’.

“It’s part of my stipend,” he explained. “For advising at the OFC. Administration comes with housing, and I told them that if they insisted, then I’d only accept their smallest residence. Hence-” And he gestured from the top of the stairs — galley kitchen and sitting area, tidily appointed; twin bedrooms to either side of the shared bath, doors open. “I enjoy it, though. It’s practical.”

Martin stopped beside him, and set his bag down as he glanced around. “It’s a bachelor pad,” he finally said.

“It is, in fact, a bachelor pad,” Tristan nodded, moving through the living space to the kitchen. “Call it ‘making up for missed rights-of-passage’.”

Martin chuckled, pausing to run a hand across distressed stucco, the patches of exposed brick beneath. “For what it’s worth, bachelorhood is a legitimate lifestyle choice. I should know.”

“Aw, damn.” Tristan cast him a sympathetic glance. “She called it?”

Martin shrugged, eye falling on a series of framed drawings which he slowed to look at, and added distractedly, “I couldn’t commit, apparently.”

Tristan considered that as he set his coffee down to pour a second cup. “How long was it, again?”

“Four years.” Martin walked away from the display, and halted at the kitchen island; slid half onto a stool and rested against his forearms, fingers laced. “Ish.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

Martin shrugged again. “She wasn’t wrong,” he said. “We had a lot in common, Aunna and I, but a mutual aversion to marriage was practically bedrock. And I told Marika up front - and again when we started talking about exclusivity - that I would never step out on her, but I wasn’t interested in that particular social convention.”

It sounded reasonable enough. “And she understood?”

Martin bobbled his head. “Until she couldn’t anymore,” he replied, accepting the mug Tristan handed over.

Tristan tried to find the most succinct, but least cruel, way to express what he thought of that. Decided to ask:

“And _did_ you ever step out on her?”

When Martin looked affronted by the suggestion, Tristan pointed at him as though illustrating a point.

“Ex _actly_.” He picked up his own mug and leaned against the opposite counter, shook his head with a bemused expression. “And that’s why she _is_ wrong. Four years isn’t _nothing_ , Martin. You can commit. You just couldn’t do it the way she ultimately wanted. That’s on her, man.”

He watched Martin's expression turn inward over his coffee a moment, then he let slip an accepting smile and focused up.

“Thanks,” he said. “I kinda needed to hear that.”

“Happy to help,” Tristan replied, sketching a little salute with his mug. “So how long are you in town for?”

“Couple days, maybe?” Martin looked thoughtful, “I’ve been working on a project, but this thing with Marika…” He shook his head abruptly, as if to dislodge her. “I need to get my head clear before I can keep at it. Thought it’d be a good excuse to travel a bit, maybe drop in on a friend.”

Tristan smiled at the word choice. “You’re welcome to the guest bed,” he offered, and gestured to the first door on his left. “There’s a livery up the street.”

Martin’s gaze followed the motion, then he nodded. “Found it already, and I’ll take you up on the offer.”

“Excellent.” Tristan pushed away from the counter, and tipped his head in a _come along_ motion.

* * *

Tristan showed him the room, then gave him leave to make himself at home while he took a shower. Martin placed his bag on the foot of the bed, removed a few items and carried them with him back to the sitting room; set everything down on the coffee table before making a small circle to take in the space.

Between Aunna’s stories and the few dozen letters they’d exchanged over the years, Martin felt he knew Tristan pretty well by now; but there was a distinction between letting a man tell you how he lives, and seeing it in person. Given the green light like this, he found he was legitimately curious to have a look around.

The framework of Tristan’s place reminded him a lot of the first one he’d rented above Rex’s shopfront in Texorami (right down to the patches of exposed brick), but all similarity ended there. Most of these walls were a pale Mediterranean blue, for example, or a faded Caribbean green; the floors were herringbone red hardwood, and the furniture was sturdy, functional — not exactly pleasing to look at, still a solid aesthetic. But there was also a huge burgundy cashmere throw over the wingback chair, and a pair of colourful overstuffed pillows at either end of the sofa, and the mission bench by the stairs had a vibrantly striped cushion across the seat. So the whole space spoke of a man in transition; of rigid lines learning to soften, camouflage molting to a brighter palette.

There was also a surprising amount of art on the walls - beautiful pieces in charcoal and prismacolour and graphite, so lifelike he could almost feel the breeze across the rye, hear the yellowhammer in the woods - until Martin realized they were all by the same hand; that he’d seen similar pieces before, in Topanga and Keene. Their mother had been very skilled at capturing life on paper.

Tristan’s bookshelves were full of the expected fare for a Vet - memoirs of great generals, analyses of memorable battles, the occasional dog-eared combat manual, a battered copy of the Golden Circle’s MCOC - but also _Stranger in a Strange Land_ , and _Slaughterhouse Five_ , and _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ , and _The Gunslinger_ (the inside cover of which was inscribed _Here, you con-_ )

The interface behind his ear chirruped and-

_“What are you doing?” he asked._

_“Wouldn’t you know,” she replied, not bothering to look up from her hunched position over the kitchen counter, “that the sparkling dumbass actually_ _ liked _ _the Heinlein junk? I sent that shit as a joke!” She shook her head, “But he _ _ hated _ _Vonnegut. Called it ‘confusing’.”_

_She was scribbling something furiously into the front cover of a book, and he looked over her shoulder to read-_

( _-trary asshole. Hate_ _ this _ _one!_ ).

Martin gasped, hand flashing out to grab something to steady himself because her voice was suddenly an echo all around him-

_“He honestly has terrible taste, Martin. It’s a wonder he’s able to function in normal society at all.” And she slapped the cover shut._

-and he snatched at the neural interface, scratched it off and clutched it in his fist, staggered back into a chair when the extra sensory input burst to nothing like a bubble.

“Fuck,” he hissed at the ceiling, pulse racing. “Fucking _fuck_.”

He took a moment to calm his breathing (because Interface Shock Syndrome was a real thing and yes he should have deactivated it first but fucking _ow_ ) before opening his palm and prodding at the device, which had gone dormant upon removal. He’d have to confirm with Tristan, but he’d gotten the impression that Malwain wasn’t very technologically adept. If so, the fact that the interface had activated at all was interesting, especially since it hadn’t at any other point along the journey here, and he’d made an effort to pass through some pretty tech-heavy places.

But also…

But also, it’d activated the Recall algorithm. Without the squidcap. It’d almost made him _seize_ the throughput was so intense, but if he could capture that data for analysis somehow, then-

“Hey, man.”

Martin’s head jerked up, and he blinked. “Yes?”

Tristan, looking mildly concerned, was standing outside the bathroom with a towel tied around his hips, scrubbing across his hair with a second.

“You ok?”

“Yeah.” Martin pulled the protective case from his pocket and put the interface inside. Best to keep it off until he could review the buffer. “Just part of the project I’ve been working on,” he explained, setting it aside.

Tristan let the towel drape across his neck; gripped the ends with his arms otherwise hanging loose, and looked thoughtful. Then he jerked his chin at the pile on the coffee table.

“And that?” he asked.

“Put some clothes on first,” Martin said, moving to the sofa and then leaning forward to spread the items out across the wooden surface.

Tristan laughed, and turned toward his bedroom. “If I had a haypenny.”

Martin barked a laugh as well, glancing up when the movement caught his periphery, and-

_“oshit”_

He hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud until Tristan froze, one hand on the doorframe as he looked back over his shoulder, quizzical.

Four parallel scars, narrow at the ends but wide in the middle, cut a swath across the man’s back, from a point just below his right shoulder blade, to just above his lowermost left rib. Tristan arched a little to check what he was looking at, then made an acknowledging sound.

“Ah.” His face creased in a rueful smile. “I never really forget they’re there, but I _do_ sometimes forget who hasn’t seen them.”

And he wanted to ask. _Desperately_ wanted to ask. But-

“Pollux was a little _too_ into them-”

“His name was _Pollux?_ ” Martin blurted. Tristan gave him a blank stare.

“Don’t judge,” he warned, but there was no malice in it. In fact, his tone softened completely, and he gave a small nod. “Ask.”

Martin chewed on the words a moment. Finally: “Do you remember it?”

And he saw Tristan track the way his right hand moved to the place behind his left pectoral; knew he understood.

“More than I wish I did,” he said. “How much do you want to hear?”

Martin considered. “Whatever you’re willing to share, I guess,” he decided.

* * *

It wasn’t a conversation to have half naked with someone you weren’t fucking, so Tristan got dressed, and poured them both another cup of coffee.

“I’m going to preface this by saying that I don’t remember _everything_ ,” he began, molding himself into the pillow at the other end of the sofa. “I’m also not sure on the order of things, because I took a pretty serious blow to the head when it happened, and spent almost eight months in a coma.”

Martin cringed, but didn’t appear inclined to interrupt. Instead, he settled into the opposite corner, and bent one knee up to plant a bare foot onto the empty seat between them. And although Tristan had told parts of the story before, mostly at Group, finding a start point and stringing it all together was still a bit of a struggle.

“I was co-head of a splinter group of Rowan Vert that’d been partnered with Scarlet Acolytes-” When Martin tilted his head with a questioning expression, Tristan considered the best shorthand to explain by. Settled on, “Combat mages?” His guest’s face smoothed in comprehension, and he continued, “Our unit’s primary job on the Front was to stop the enemy from flanking any of our army’s multiple points of ingress.”

Tristan was on the fence about how much to say — not because he had anything to hide, but because war was fucking _awful_ , and if he could spare someone the experience he absolutely would. But he also suspected Martin would know if he was omitting anything important, so he chose to gloss over the gore and keep the details simple.

“I lost my partner somewhere around hour nine, by my reckoning. We were taking a Gate to another location, and it collapsed when she died. I had to put my mount down right after due to her injuries.” He looked at his coffee mug, and set it aside; folded an arm over the back of the sofa, and pulled his legs up beside Martin’s foot, crossing his ankles.

“I remember being pretty frantic after that. I only had a few hours on my eesa — Environmental / Situational Armor,” he added at another of Martin’s querying looks, “which meant I had to get somewhere the atmosphere wouldn’t kill me before it ran out, and then hope my body armour would hold up against anything else until I could find another Acolyte to recharge it.”

And this is where things always got fuzzy, but also weirdly hyper-focus clear.

“I called Aunna,” he resumed, a bit haltingly. “I wanted her to know I was solo, and may need to exfil to her location if mine was compromised. But then something…”

_“But what about Oberon?” And Sagr was spinning, then galloping sideways to avoid something Tristan could not see. “How will we know if-”_

He felt his face fall, and he folded his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if Martin ever learned what had happened to her, in the end. He’d never asked, and Tristan had never volunteered because,

“I didn’t have a complete picture before, by the way,” he confessed, a slight non-sequitur, “but Leo filled in some gaps, if you-”

Martin held up a hand and shook his head once, dismissive: _Not now._ The forestall became a beckoning gesture: _Go on._ Tristan sighed, mildly grateful for the reprieve.

“I went a little out-of-body, after,” he continued. “Which is when it came up out of the ground - may have _been_ the ground for all I know, fucking Chaos - and threw me into the air, then slapped me down so hard I felt my skull bounce before I blacked out.” He turned his head slightly to the right, and lifted a hand to riffle the hair above his left temple, showing Martin the small array of scars dotting his scalp. “It’s the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital.”

The room was quiet for a long beat then, and Tristan let it stretch while he finally finished his coffee. Eventually, Martin lifted his head from his silent contemplation, and fixed him with an almost awed expression.

“And here I thought _I_ was a resilient bastard, goddammit.”

Tristan took it in the spirit by which it was intended: Because the discussion called for a moment of levity.

“Hey, now,” he chuckled. “Didn’t Random legitimize you last time you were out that way? Not a bastard, friend.”

Martin gave him a sardonic thumbs-up, smirking into his coffee as he finished it off, and set the empty mug aside.

“Anyhow,” Tristan picked up again, tone more sure. “After I woke up, I had a few weeks of PT getting my legs to work again, then spent some time at Willow Trace to get my head sorted, eventually accepted this position at the OFC…” He trailed off. This was still the hardest part to admit. “I swear though, nearly three years later, and I can still smell that thing’s breath sometimes. I wake up to the taste of char in my throat, and my muscles twitching with the memory of hitting the ground.”

Martin frowned like someone who knew _exactly_ the kind of nightmare he was talking about. It was actually a little painful to see.

“But you do understand this shit isn’t linear, right?” Tristan asked with wry humor. “Healing is an ongoing process, and trauma never really leaves people like us. All _we_ can do is get better at managing what _it_ can do.”

Martin slanted him a curious look. “‘People like us’?”

“People who live a long goddamn time,” Tristan replied. “But also, people who still give a shit about other people, even after they’ve lived a long goddamn time.”

Silence cloaked the room again, and Martin looked deeply introspective, the fingers of his left hand plucking across the back of the sofa like they wanted some kind of occupation. Tristan knew that need, and he didn’t want Martin to feel obligated to share his own story if he wasn’t ready. So he nudged the other man’s calf with a toe to get his attention, and said,

“So I’m dressed now.” He jerked his head toward the coffee table.

Martin startled a little, pulled out of his reverie by the contact, and cycled a quick breath.

“Oh, right.” He lifted his foot up and over Tristan’s legs, turned in his seat as he put it on the floor and leaned forward. “So your sister was under the impression that you had terrible taste in pretty much everything except friends. But since my opinion on that is still open to persuasion…”

* * *

Martin hadn’t smoked regularly in years — didn’t even carry a pack with him anymore. But when Tristan had finished, he’d really missed the way lighting up and taking a drag filled the gap in conversation; gave him a plausible reason to pause and process.

Because that was a _lot_.

And Tristan had spoken about it casually enough that he’d clearly given it a bit of thought, but still hitched in the retelling because fuck, that was _A Lot_.

Barring a cigarette though, he was more than willing to be distracted by going through the items he’d brought with him from Texorami instead.

“Dylan was very polarizing for us,” he admitted. “Aunna couldn’t get past his nasal delivery, but I was always willing to overlook it for his ability to turn a phrase.”

Tristan flipped the vinyl copy of _Blood on the Tracks_ over, and looked at the back of the sleeve. “You think she’d have hit me with him sooner, then. Oppositional shit that I am.”

“Man, you really broke her with the Heinlein,” Martin laughed brightly, plucking a shortbread from the tin Tristan had brought out when their stomachs had started to growl.

“Yeah, I heard.” Tristan grinned down at the album, then looked around the room contemplatively, tapping fingertips against the sleeve before setting it on the table. “I think there’s a gramophone in storage downstairs,” he said, standing. “Just a tick.”

And then he was hefting an _honest-to-god_ _gramophone_ up the stairs, and setting it up on an end table near the kitchen, and they were listening to ‘Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts’ while making lunch and-

“Sometimes, I miss her so much it guts me.”

It just sorta slipped out that way. Martin was a little surprised with himself.

But then Tristan didn’t react, other than to glance his way when he paused - inviting but not expecting more - before returning to his saucepan. Martin resumed chopping veg.

“It’s usually an unexpected moment. I’ll see something, or hear something, and turn to make a comment about it, only…” He lifted one shoulder, exhaled a small sigh. “But this morning kinda fucked me up a little bit, and I needed a change of scene to work through it. So thank you for your hospitality, Tristan.”

The other man shook his head like he was going to ‘aw shucks’ it away; but then he caught Martin’s eye, and instead he smiled graciously.

“You're welcome, Martin.”

He’d always found it easier to talk when his hands were busy, which Tristan must’ve picked up on somehow, because as soon as the veg were finished his host traded him places, and passed the wooden spoon over to keep stirring.

_T’was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood…_

“We were taking a break when it happened,” Martin finally began. “She found out about Corwin trying to kill Eric, and said she had to go make peace with him or risk exile.”

Tristan hummed. “I remember that conversation,” he confirmed. “He thought she was in Deig’a. I knew she wasn’t.”

“She told me as much. Suggested that I lay low, maybe go travel Shadow a bit because my dad was helping Corwin, and said that she’d stop by when she got back into town.”

Tristan resumed his role with the saucepan; took up the spoon and eased Martin back to the counter, where the bowls of meat and veg had been seasoned, and were waiting to be skewered.

“I was leaving Texorami, heading out for an aimless wander, when I felt this pressure at the base of my skull — like I was wearing a hat that was a bit too small. And I ignored it for a while, thinking it was maybe a Shadow atmosphere thing, but then it became almost _aggressively_ painful, just _hammering_ up against the Pattern in my head, so I dropped the Image and it was-” he made a motion like his skull was erupting “-suddenly there’s this guy in front of me, ghostly and blueish and just hovering nearby as I’m riding along. It was pretty fucked up, actually.”

“You’d never had a trump call before?” Tristan asked, genuinely surprised.

“Never had one drawn,” Martin replied, matter-of-fact. “I was fifteen when I-”

“Bullshit!” Tristan laughed. “Who was your Mentor?”

And Martin laughed right back. Couldn’t help it.

“Y’know that’s _exactly_ what Aunna said,” he managed through it. “Albeit with less humor, more hostility.” 

He heard the icebox open beneath Tristan’s residual chuckle, followed by the distinct sound of bottle caps being popped. A dark brown beer was set on the counter beside him, and his host tapped against the side of it with the base of his own in salute, drinking as he stepped back to the stove. Martin picked his up, took a swallow, and looked at the label. He set it down, and resumed constructing kabobs.

“So this guy tells me he’s my Uncle Brand, and that he's been looking for me, and he’s drawn a trump card of me mostly for academic purposes since he had to rely on secondhand knowledge to do it. He was very proud of himself for that.” (And honestly, Tristan having him skewer meat-and-veg for this was fucking genius, because it was just the right amount of productive violence to feel a bit cathartic.) “I didn’t trust him. He could tell. So he made small talk at me for a while until I started to think maybe I’d jumped to judgment. But then when I shook his hand good-bye—”

Martin made an abrupt stabbing motion, with his empty hand because he wasn’t incompetent, and looked at Tristan; who was leaning against the opposite counter again, bottle dangling by the neck from three fingers, watching Martin right back.

“I think he meant to pull me through to wherever he was,” he continued, turning fully while wiping off his hands. “My horse had other ideas. The dagger broke a rib coming out when he panicked.” He rucked up the hem of his shirt then to reveal the jagged red line down the left side of his ribcage. “It forced a disconnection though, so I escaped that fate at least.”

Tristan blanched. Martin let the garment fall back into place, picked up his beer and took a long drink; assumed a mirroring pose. And for the first time in a _long_ time, he actively tried to remember what came next.

“I don’t know how long I was out, but I was in pretty bad shape when I came to. I kept getting lost in Shadow trying to find help, because my brain was-” He tilted his head at Tristan, “Have you ever done hallucinogens?”

To be honest, he was actually a little surprised when Tristan nodded and sipped his beer — or maybe _more_ than a little, because he felt his face do something interesting and then the other man was sputtering a laugh and trying not to choke. Martin passed him a dishcloth, feeling slightly guilty but also,

“I’m going to ask you about that, later,” he said.

“Sure,” Tristan replied with a chuckle, swiping at the damp speckles on his shirt. “I’ll bet my version of the story is _easily_ as entertaining as hers was.”

_His version? Of .. the story?_

But then Tristan was setting the towel aside, and making a small gesture toward the half-assembled kebabs before stepping over to assist in finishing them. After a moment to resume a rhythm, Martin continued.

“I shifted through Shadow like that.”

The statement hung while Tristan pondered what it meant; turned his head and blinked. Martin nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” Tristan breathed, vaguely horrified.

Martin nodded again, brows rising as he let out an affirmative hum. He finished the last skewer, and set it on the tray Tristan picked up.

“I knew I was in serious trouble - tripping balls and bleeding all over creation - but all I _really_ wanted in the end was a friendly face, you know? Somewhere safe to make my best last impression.” He shrugged, and resumed his lean against the counter with beer in hand. “So I kinda .. asked the universe? ‘Hey, powers that be, if you could maybe send someone to help me out?’ Real fever-prayer shit. And then I just,” he flipped his free hand, palm down to supine, “into a ditch. About a mile from Aunna’s place.”

Tristan let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Lucky,” he said, laying the kabobs out on the stove’s grill, basting them with the contents from the saucepan. 

“In Keene,” Martin clarified. “The last time I’d seen her, she lived in Topanga. About twenty-two hundred miles west of there.”

“ _Really_ lucky,” Tristan amended.

Martin pointed with, then downed, the last of his bottle; declined with a small wave when Tristan tilted his head toward the icebox.

“In hindsight, I’d say that’s when she became more to me than a passing fascination,” he confessed, as much to himself as his host. “Because you gotta understand, Tristan. I was _terrified_. I _knew_ I was done for…”

(that near death chill was still under his skin when he dwelled on it, in fact; his sobs of relief a thick memory in his throat)

“And she didn’t have to help you,” Tristan eventually prompted, drawing Martin back from whatever place he’d been tipping toward with an even, unsurprised observation. “But she did.”

Martin gave him a small nod in assent, the corners of his mouth curling up organically.

“I woke up in her bed, stitched and dressed, and ‘grateful’ was too small a word. ‘Thank you’ was a platitude.”

* * *

They took their meal out to the ‘balcony’ (Tristan hesitated to use the term, since it was barely wide enough for two bistro chairs, and he had to climb through a window to access it), and enjoyed what had turned out to be a perfect spring day in companionable ease. Tristan answered Martin’s questions about growing up between Malwain and Amber, and listened to a few anecdotes about Rebman childhood in return. A man named Taylor sang about going to Carolina from the gramophone, the guitar-and-vocal vaguely familiar.

“So am I correct in thinking you’ve never been here before?” Tristan eventually asked, biting into a shortbread and offering over the tin.

Martin waivered a hand while picking one out for himself. “Cathair du Varos, no. Malwain, yes.”

Tristan’s surprise was evident. “Really?”

“I want to say…” Martin took a bite, chewed pondering, “maybe December of ‘81? It was one of those rare years when winter hit both of our places at the same time, and we were sick to fucking death of snow; but Texorami is ‘one season fits all’, and the alternative on Shadow Earth was either drout and wildfires or typhoons and hurricanes. So we went to the Village of Rjimswood for a weekend, because she assured me summer was perfect there, and as long as she didn’t take Sagr nobody would look at us twice.”

 _“If you were in the Buckden,” she said, voice flat in the way it got when she was Big Sister-ing him, “and I was in Eminence Bay,” she made a slow arch to somewhere vaguely north-northeast, “but I never reached out to tell you I was there - if we were just_ _existing_ _in the same Shadow, and you weren’t_ _actively_ _looking_ _for me, or someone_ _like_ _me - would_ _you_ _know?”_

_Tristan considered that as frankly as it’d been presented, then shook his head. "No,” he conceded the point. “I probably wouldn’t.”_

_Aunna made a ‘There you have it’ gesture…_

“That sneaky bitch,” Tristan laughed.

Martin grinned, knowingly. “Hindsight?”

“She could’ve hosted a Masterclass on subterfuge.” Setting the tin on the windowsill next to their empty plates, he considered what Martin had said, and concluded, “Best time of year to get to the Rjim, though. Did she take you to Zecemìle Springs?”

“We didn’t go anywhere _but_ Zecemìle Springs,” Martin replied, chuckling.

“Helbour Caverns is pretty spectacular,” Tristan offered. “Or Picstùc Point, if you’d rather go up than down. This isn’t the season for either of those places, sadly, but in a month…”

He trailed off. Martin was watching him curiously. Tristan laughed at himself.

“I sound like the Minister for Tourism,” he said. Martin raised a hand, finger and thumb barely parted, but his expression was mirthful. So, “Of course,” Tristan continued, much more subdued, “that’s assuming you’ll want to come back at all. Malwain could prove a bit tame after a few days.”

Martin smiled at him, taking the depreciation for the humor it was meant to be. But then,

“You say that,” he ventured, “but I don’t feel _displaced_ here like some Shadows. In fact, I keep thinking if you stripped away all the tech in Texorami, this is what would be left.”

Tristan looked at him, and Martin tipped his chin to encompass the carriage trotting by, the couple walking their dog, the solitary rider crossing toward the gallops.

“We have steam power,” Tristan said, then pointed to the unlit street lamps. “Electricity. Indoor plumbing. I keep hoping for telephones someday, but in a ‘too unmotivated to do it myself’ sort of way, which is probably why they haven't happened yet. Automobiles flat out never caught on, though. We’re a nation of Equestrians. An auto was - _is_ \- worse than gauch.”

Martin laughed. “See, but that makes sense,” he replied, gesturing to make a point. “Aunna told me about the various Registries, the rigors of receiving and maintaining accreditation, etcetera. There’s pride in that, and a Nationality worth preserving.” He gazed out at the street again, kicked his heels up onto the railing, and folded his arms across his chest in a casual repose; shook his head, looking perplexed. “I have no clue why Texorami does it. Except for racing stock, they’re all a bunch of mutts. You should’ve seen the looks Hank got when I boarded him this morning, scrawny lil’ piebald beast next to all those sleek aristocrats. It was funny as fuck.” Martin smirked, making a low huffing sound. “We have targeted holo-ads on every public building, and personal communication devices the size of a dime. But if all the horses dropped dead tomorrow? Society would screech to a halt for a while. It’s bizarre.”

Tristan considered what that would look like, here, and immediately discarded the idea as implausible. “Malwain doesn’t have that level of technological potential,” he said. “My dad once told me it was too close to Amber for much advancement beyond what it had already achieved before it joined the Golden Circle, but also that making the alliance kinda sealed its fate as-” Tristan gestured broadly. “So while I bemoan the lagging possibility of tele-anything, I’m _also_ not too worried about a sudden breakthrough in nuclear technology. And that seems like a fair tradeoff.”

Martin nodded sagely. “Better that than to learn from your mistakes,” he intoned. “Texorami used to have hyperspace travel. Now they have steamboats and zeppelins.”

Tristan suspected he knew what Martin was trying to do. Because ‘steamboats and zeppelins’ _did_ sound plausible to Malwain, and were therefore fascinating, and less a jump into the technological deep end should he decide to-

“ _Deschis_ _mereu doras_ , by the way,” Martin offered, as though reading his thoughts. “In case it needed to be said.”

Tristan gave him a pleased grin, mildly impressed at the other man’s pronunciation of his native tongue. “Fair enough,” he said with a slow nod. “We go on leave at the end of the month. Ten days. There’s a show I want to catch at some point during, but other than that I’m free.”

Martin looked interested. “What show?”

“‘Fall of Arrows’,” Tristan replied. Then he considered Martin’s love of music, and offered, “It’s an opera, but…” And here he trailed off awkwardly, because, “The subject matter might hit a little close to home.”

Martin’s head tilted, quizzical.

“It’s about Patternfall,” Tristan advised. “As told by two lovers, separated by war.”

Martin’s face blanked for a moment, then he shook his head and cycled a deep breath. “Yeah, maybe I’ll wait for the revival,” he said.

Tristan gave him a commiserating smile. “Truthfully? I would too. Only it was written by a trio of Vets from my Group, and I want to show support for their healing process.”

Martin’s expression smoothed into something pleasantly surprised — or perhaps pleasantly affirmed.

“You’re good oats, Tristan,” he said.

“Thanks,” Tristan smiled sheepishly. “I try to be.”

“Which is why you’ll probably need a drink when it’s over,” Martin chuckled. “So tell you what. You send me a message before you go, and I’ll come meet you after. You can tell me about it, and then decompress a few days in Texorami; someplace inland, where the high tech is less prolific. Savvy?”

He rolled his left elbow against his side, extended his hand across the small gap between them, palm up. Tristan looked at it, then met Martin’s eye. He shrugged, and reached across to briefly clasp it.

“Deal,” he agreed.

“Excellent.” Martin retracted his arm and folded it behind his head, leaning into the window frame. “In the meantime, please don’t feel obligated to entertain me. I know I dropped by unexpectedly, and won’t begrudge any plans you’d made.”

“No plans,” Tristan shook his head. “So really, I should be thanking you for saving me from a day of unproductive lounging.”

Then he rested one foot on the lower rail, kicked his other ankle over it, and laced his fingers across his crown, leaning back into the late afternoon sun in a sublime lounge.

Martin laughed, and affected the same.

* * *

He stayed nearly a week, in the end.

It had been a while since he'd been able to fully relax in his own skin, and passing time with someone without the specter of a faltering romance haunting the room was nice. Not to imply he didn’t know _other_ people in Texorami. More that he’d determined to never let himself become as well-known as ‘Martin Gale’ again, so as ‘Martin Keene’ he kept a pretty small circle of acquaintances. And although he’d enjoyed Marika’s company on a physical level, in hindsight he could admit now that he’d never really connected with her on an emotional one. Partly for latent mourning, but mainly because, after Rex, he found he had a difficult time bonding with Shadow folk in general.

But Tristan was Real. More, he was a peer; someone who understood what it meant to be Blood of Amber. And Aunna had been right — they couldn’t be solitary creatures all of the time. He could feel himself calcifying from it. He needed to let someone in.

So Martin strove to be the perfect houseguest — cleaned up after himself, tried not to intrude when Tristan looked immersed in work details, offered to assist where applicable. He entertained himself by trying (and failing) to recreate the interface’s odd moment of activation after his arrival, and riding Hank along the gallops to explore the countryside.

When he wasn’t otherwise engaged, Tristan took him around CdV (as the natives called it) and introduced him to the best places to eat, or grab a drink, or just sit and people watch. He gave historical notes at Martin’s curious looks, offered stories unprompted, and never once seemed put out by Martin’s presence in his home; instead sliding easily into the rhythm of having another person around, effortless in his inclusion.

They spent an evening out at Landry’s Faire after Martin mentioned it as a point of interest, and it really was a lot like he remembered The Green in Port Laskill. They took a ride out to Embassy Row for lunch one afternoon, and it had been a small shock when Tristan had presented him to the Registrar at the gate as ‘Martin Barimen, Prince of Rebma’ without the slightest hesitation.

(He must’ve made an odd face though, because Tristan had chuckled at him as they’d moved deeper into the courtyard.

“She used a lot of pseudonyms, I take it?” he’d observed.

“Not ‘a lot’,” Martin had contended, then relented, “but consistently, yeah.”)

Overall, it had been a welcome respite, but he was ready to get back to his project. The fact that he hadn’t been able to recreate the circumstances by which the interface had activated that first day meant he needed to dig into the data, and his head was finally clear enough to be interested in that undertaking.

He was seated on the balcony when Tristan got home that afternoon, bag packed and resting on the bench by the stairs. Martin heard him hesitate when he caught sight of it, then cross into the kitchen; heard the run of the tap, and the clatter of the coffee pot on the stovetop. Then the man was poking his head out with a curious look.

“Heading home?”

“In a couple hours,” Martin looked over and replied. “Better timing. It’ll be quieter in Texorami then.”

Tristan’s attention shifted back into the apartment with an affirmative noise, and he disappeared. After a moment, Martin caught a very familiar rustling sound, then music: simultaneous piano / guitar / drum-

_Anthony works in the grocery store, savin’ his pennies for someday…_

When Tristan returned a full song later, stooping through the window to join him, he passed Martin a steaming mug and asked, “So what did she hate about this one?”

“Nothing,” Martin shrugged, sipping. “We loved this album. Granted, hers was a grudging, _guilty_ love, but still."

It had a lot of fond memories as a result. Some he could share. Others he would never. Tristan hummed thoughtfully as he sprawled out in his chair, then slanted Martin a sly look.

“Either you’re extremely observant, or Aunna talked about me far more than you let on.”

Martin laughed. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you seem to know my tastes pretty well, considering we spent less than a handful of hours together before you came here.”

The laugh dipped a little, became a self-deprecating chuckle. “Oh, this isn’t about knowing _you_ ,” Martin confessed, pointing back through the window at the distant gramophone. “This is about knowing _her_ , and then taking a stab in the dark.”

Over the past few days they’d listened to _Hotel California_ (which Tristan had played several times since), and _Ghost in the Machine_ (which he was still on the fence about), and while he looked to be enjoying _The Stranger_ so far, Martin _had_ been subconsciously cataloguing his reactions. He was confident now that Fleetwood Mac and Tom Petty would go over well; definitely Mellencamp, née Cougar; maybe Young, and Cash. Possibly early-Elton?

When Tristan appeared unconvinced by his counter argument however, he added, “Okay, yes, I listened when she talked, and I actually read your letters, so maybe it’s a bit of both? But honestly, there’s no ulterior motive here-”

Tristan suddenly looked mortified. “Oh shit, no! I never meant to imply-”

“It’s cool, Tristan,” Martin cut back across him, reaching out to tap his shoulder and waving it off. “What I mean is I’m not interested in the intrigue games that occupy our Elders. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be as honest as possible, and I’ve decided I’m willing to trust you. But I understand it might take time for you to get there, so I’m not going to be offended when you need to check in on my motivations now and then.”

Tristan’s expression smoothed into something contemplative, and he settled back in his seat. After a moment, he nodded to himself and made a confirming little sound.

“I appreciate that, Martin,” he finally said. “Also, I might pass that advice on to a few others I know could stand to hear it.”

“Then you’re doubly welcome,” Martin replied with a small tilt of his mug.

* * *

Martin gathered up his bag and headed downstairs shortly after dusk.

He left the albums behind because they were duplicates, he assured; and now that he knew Tristan had a way to play them, he had a good excuse to comb his collection for others.

In return, Tristan confirmed from the front stoop that he’d send a courier before going to the opera in a few weeks, reminded Martin that he was always welcome to drop by regardless, and wished him a safe trip.

The two men shook hands. Martin picked Hank up from the livery, and returned to Texorami.


	3. Chapter 3

Reinvigorated by the break, Martin dove directly back into his interface project by pouring through virtual miles of data logs in search of whatever had triggered the incident in Tristan’s apartment. His query, however, proved fruitless — there were no anomalous pairs, no flagging lines of code. No timestamps _at all_ beyond leaving Texorami, in fact. And that was fucking annoying because he _knew_ what he’d experienced, and it wasn’t _nothing_.

Instead of letting frustration get the better of him though, he touched base with a couple of the project managers from the R&D company in his building, and they bounced ideas around over bourbon and cigars one night. He came away brewing a few thoughts that wouldn’t necessarily help his Shadow conundrum, but might resolve the need for the squidcap. So he mussed with that aspect for a bit, in hopes that something else might shake loose in the working.

He confirmed his time with Tristan had successfully cleared his head when Marika made an appearance at his favourite haunt at the end of the week, looking delectable and ravenous in latex and stilettos, copper hair falling in a sleek sheet down her well-exposed back. He remained resolute but polite in declining her closing time offer of ‘one for the road’, then paid a cab to get her home because she was inebriated and he wasn’t a monster.

The following morning though, he’d woken up convinced that what his interface was missing wasn’t something he could fix with code. It was in the manufacture; the material. On this hunch he disassembled the prototype, and located a sequence of dead circuit connections around an overloaded chip. The virtual assistant flashed across his upper periphery: order new? allow / decline. He hesitated, then sent a request for raw silver. After another pause, he sent an additional inquiry for rhodium and mercury.

When Tristan’s message arrived another full week later - stating simply that he was going to the opera the following night, and would meet him at a lounge called Secară a little after ten - Martin was pondering the nearly-completed hardware on his workbench with an easy sense of certainty that _this one_ would have no issues functioning across all of Shadow, tech level be damned.

He pressed the completed project behind his left ear before leaving the next day; heard a trill and felt it spin up. A small prompt appeared at the bottom right of his vision, scrolled 'sim0ne' and then faded. He stepped out the door, then paused on the landing when it closed and the feeling of his trump shield held — _dampened_ , but held. He smiled, mildly chuffed, and punched the button to summon the lift.

“Launch playlist ‘This Is My Mood Now’.”

Chirrup, followed by a crescendoing organ, a steady high guitar layering over, then a driving bass and drum-

Martin laughed aloud. _Well played, sim0ne,_ he thought with a broadening grin, stepping forward when the doors parted. _Advantage, you._

 _I want to run_ , the vocalist replied _. I want to hide. I wanna tear down the walls that hold me inside…_

* * *

“Do you remember the last time you went to a show?” Tristan asked.

Off to the side, Leo’s illusion chuckled.

“Does the audience require an age limit to qualify as ‘a show’?” he returned, scrubbing his free hand across his hair. “If not, then The Bumbly Briar Bunny Brigade were in rare form last weekend-”

Tristan adjusted his tie in the mirror, singing, “‘Doooon’t woooory, Myyyy-lo’-”

“I will end this call,” Leo cut in. His baleful look was marred by a cheek-splitting yawn, though.

Tristan leaned against the basin to address his friend fully. “Please tell me you’ve accepted the offer to instruct at Arden OFC,” he said.

Leo nodded, his face going somewhat blissful. “I start in the fall.”

“Happy to hear it,” Tristan smiled. Then he made a broad gesture at the illusion, and added, “Please tell me this isn’t my father putting you through the ringer, _because_ you’ve accepted the offer to instruct at Arden OFC.”

“Shit, I hope not,” Leo groaned. Then, more lightly, “I’ve been helping Lewison transition into my command.”

Tristan’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Eoin re-upped?”

His friend nodded. “I think he’s got aspirations toward _your_ old job, actually.”

“Well, good on him,” Tristan nodded, moving to pick up his shoes. “I think he’d be a damn fine choice.”

Leo laughed. “He’ll want that in writing, you know.”

“Tell him to call me when he’s got his RFT packet together, and I’ll hand it to Command myself.” He sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, adding with a grin as he pulled on his shoes, “I’ll even promise not to get sauce on it at the dinner table.”

“Sure, I’ll drop that gem next time he’s trying to bluff me out of my allowance.”

Tristan glanced up from tying his laces. “I _told_ you not to join that game, Leo,” he chided good-naturedly, and shook his head before resuming his task. “Man’s a stone and can’t be bled.”

He stood, and bounced on the balls of his feet a few times to check the flex of his soles; rocked back on his heels to curl his toes.

“You look good,” Leo said. Tristan smirked.

“Thanks, dear.”

“So now I have two questions,” Leo continued. “What are you going to see? and Who are you taking with you?”

Tristan turned to pick his jacket up off of the bed. “‘Fall of Arrows’, and nobody.”

“Hang on.” Leo suddenly sounded like he was trying _very_ hard not to judge. “Isn’t that the show Ethan Forsythe is in?”

“It’s the opera about Patternfall that some of the Vets from my support group wrote,” Tristan retorted, crossing to the mirror and shrugging into his jacket, “which Ethan Forsythe happens to be in.”

Tristan stepped back, and gave himself a critical frown. Closed, then unbuttoned the jacket, the black-on-black ensemble sleek either way but giving him a severe appearance when buttoned that wasn’t remotely what he was going for. He tilted his head right, left; eyed the faint flecking of grey above his left temple, then ruffled his hair into something a little less kempt to mask it.

When Leo remained quiet, Tristan gave him a glance. Was unsurprised to see folded arms, a blank expression, an un-casual casual lean.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tristan laughed, facing the illusion again. “I’m not going to pick him up, Leo.”

In response, Leo pointedly took in his ensemble, and continued to look unconvinced. Tristan turned back to the mirror. Smoothed his collar. Tugged his cuffs.

“This is for me,” he finally said, running a palm down the front of his shirt before sliding his hands into his hip pockets. “And I already have plans, after.”

His words were low, confessional. Leo caught it, and dropped his disapproving affectation.

“That’s good,” his friend said. “If it’s anything close to what I’ve heard, you’ll need time to process.”

Tristan pursed his lips, nodding. “We’re on leave through next week,” he advised. “I’m meeting Martin for drinks at Secară. Might _actually_ do some traveling outside the GC for once. We’ll see.”

Leo looked pensive. “Martin, huh?”

“Aww, don’t be that way, sugar,” Tristan poked. “You’re still my Best Guy.”

“What would _I_ have to worry about?” Leo jibed back. “I know your type, and if five-seven / one-thirty-five was it, then let me remind you Margie’s brother Caleb has been pining for you since-”

"Yeah yeah yeah," Tristan waved off with a laugh, taking a quick glance at his watch. Leo caught the motion, and smiled supportively.

“Promise you’ll give me a call if it all goes to shit,” he said.

“I will.” Tristan sketched a small salute. “Love to the family.”

Leo nodded, and disconnected. Tristan gave himself one last appraisal, slid his ticket into his breast pocket, then picked up his keys and trotted downstairs. He locked up, and caught a hackney to the theatre.

* * *

Martin paused at the entryway to take in the lounge's aesthetic: Exposed brick and polished oak beams, floorspace dotted with semi-circle sofas and benches for group socializing, tall tables and stools in little recesses along the walls for more intimate conversation. He glanced at the trio occupying the raised platform left of the door - hand organ, banjo, fiddle - and stopped sim0ne's playback with a subtle brush of a finger when the duality between folk and P-Funk became jarring. He unbuttoned his vest, scratched idly at the scruff he’d let accrue on his jaw over the weeks, and surveyed the area as he crossed to the bar — which spanned the right side of the room nearly corner-to-corner, its shelves a wide array of amber-decanted glory.

Secară was set back a few avenues from the main concourse - an unassuming brick-faced building wedged between two hulking shop fronts - so its patronage was primarily discerning locals and distillery insiders. His unfamiliar presence caught interest, but nothing alarming; when he sat at the bar and pondered the chalkboard above it, the only person to approach was the bartender. He ordered a Perfect Tumble because it sounded good. When the girl asked if he had a rye preference, he shook his head.

“Surprise me,” he said, and she granted him a small smile as she turned to make his drink.

He’d just begun work on his second when Tristan arrived — looking a little numb, and a _lot_ in his own head. A quick glance at the clock showed Martin it was nearly eleven, so either the show had run long (unlikely), or the other man had been walking for a while before coming. He froze a few steps through the door, jacket draped over one wrist, the hand shoved deep in his hip pocket; tie loosened and the top couple of buttons on his shirt undone; dark hair a tumble from too many finger-combings. The monochrome black had probably been striking, earlier. Now, he just looked struck.

Martin started to stand. The motion pulled Tristan’s attention and he roused himself with a little shake, then nodded a greeting; smiled at and exchanged pleasantries with a few other patrons as he made his way to the bar. Martin settled onto his stool again, and re-hooked a heel over the lower rung.

“Hey,” he said as Tristan passed behind him, swiveling when the other man took the seat on his left.

“Hey,” Tristan parrotted, draping his jacket over the seatback and settling in.

He made a small gesture to the bartender, then rested an elbow on the bar. He cupped his chin in his palm, fingers folded over his mouth, and stared at Martin. The bartender set down a tumbler, uncorked a bottle, and poured until Tristan’s eyes flicked her way and he gave a subtle nod. She looked at Martin as she slapped the cork back into place.

“I’m set for now,” he said. “Thank you.”

She nodded and departed. Martin turned his attention back to Tristan, who cycled a deep breath as his hand fell from his mouth to land around the tumbler; he shifted his attention to the amber liquor, and swirled the glass against the bar a couple times before bringing it to his lips for a long swallow.

“That much, huh?” Martin finally said, lifting his own for a sip.

“I’ve been trying to decide if what I just went through was cathartic,” Tristan replied into the glass, “or a whole new trauma.”

 _Fuck_ , Martin cringed. “That bad?”

“Actually, it was amazing.” Tristan set the glass down and gave it a wistful smile. “You’ll probably like it, when you’re ready. It’s a beautiful story.”

Something in Tristan’s manner shifted then - a little part of him closing off, going introspective - and honestly it was such a familiar expression, Martin had to concentrate on the differences (grey-blue eyes, short hair, stubbled jawline) to keep himself from tipping into a bittersweet nostalgia. But then Tristan pulled a face, conflicted yet directionless, and he tilted his head away; rested both forearms on the bar and rolled his shoulders as though shrugging into a weight.

Martin waited, drinking quietly.

“Ok,” Tristan finally said. “Ok, so this is something I would usually save for Group, but it’s why you offered to be here, right?”

Eyes slanted his way. Martin nodded.

“Right,” Tristan repeated. He watched his finger tap against the lip of his glass, then took another, smaller sip, and began.

“First: The male lead in the production is a guy I dated in OFC.” His words were delivered in a casual volume, but directed toward the tumbler. “Which I knew going in, so it was a non-issue, but I think it opened the door for .. whatever I decide this is.”

Tristan made a vague gesture at his chest, giving the impression of churning, anxious energy. Martin knew that feeling well.

“It’s a long-standing tradition for units to ‘Rattle the Hill’ the night before shipping out,” Tristan continued. “Usually that means a group of fifty-odd Rangers piling on the bar for a few hours, getting rowdy and stupid. When we were deploying for Chaos, though…” He huffed a mirthless laugh, mouth twisting in a shadow of bemusement. “They had to open the whole lawn for overflow, there were so many of us. I’d never seen that before. It was .. overwhelming.”

Tristan lifted his gaze to the mirrored barback, lifted his tumbler for a sip, lowered both to the bar with that expression of directionless conflict again. When he resumed, his words were resolute.

“There was a band that night, set up on flatbed carts at the base of Stone Hill. The production’s female lead was one of their main singers.”

“Oshit,” Martin interjected. He couldn’t begin to imagine the sort of headspace _that_ would prompt, but it had clearly done a number on his friend and _fuck_ he felt so far out of his depth right now-

“Yeah,” Tristan nodded, still staring at - through - his drink. “When I saw her on stage tonight, it dropped me back into that moment like-” he snapped his fingers, lightning swift “-and I’ve been kinda spiralling around that feeling for the past four hours.”

Silence fell between them again as Tristan made another dent in his drink. Martin, who had been slowly leaning into the confession, settled back again and drummed his fingers against the side of his tumbler, pondering.

When Aunna got like this, he’d often take her to bed, and take her apart.

That wasn't really an option, here.

Redirection, though. That was the _real_ trick. And he suspected if he got Tristan thinking about something else-

“Ok, T?” Martin nudged the other man’s knee with his, and waited for his attention before resuming, “I’ll keep listening if you want, because I understand some people need to get it out in order to move past it, but I’m gonna admit that I have no idea what advice to give you other than what you already know — that you should probably share this with your people later.”

Tristan gave him a wry smile, a tiny nod. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Thanks for offering, though.”

Martin returned the motion; mirrored the expression. “In the meantime, what I _can_ do is talk to you about _anything else_ to the point of proper distraction and / or inebriation. Savvy?”

Tristan’s face creased into something more genuine. “So I suppose the _real_ question is: Do we leave for Texorami tonight, or tomorrow?” He raised his near-empty tumbler.

Martin shrugged, and lifted his glass as well. “Billetts and buckle-downs, friend,” he said, clinking the bases together. “You tell me.”

To which Tristan studied him. Hard. For several beats. Martin finished his glass, and set it aside.

And was it really so bad, hoping he might choose the latter? Because Aunna had always given the impression that her younger brother was a _very_ entertaining (if somewhat handsy) drunk - the sort to drop all pretense and get distracted in the process, but still tell stories that’d bend people double - which he had to admit he was kinda curious to see.

And Martin could be a good wingman, if Tristan could get himself to let down a bit _before_ they headed into Shadow.

So he returned the other man’s examination with wry amusement, and waited for the verdict.

Another beat, and Tristan tossed back the last swallow. Glanced over Martin’s shoulder. Motioned for another round.

* * *

“First girlfriend,” Tristan asked, swirling his drink. He’d removed his tie, wound it up around his knuckles and tucked it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping; folded up his sleeves to just below the elbows.

“By choice?” Martin replied, “Lyla Dupree. Summer thing, we were twelve. Her father was a merchant from the Coral Reach. They went home, after.”

Tristan’s face twisted, perplexed. “And _not_ ‘by choice’?”

The answer was immediate. “Daniella Ghent, Princess of Lir. We were seven. The betrothal didn’t last the weekend.” He lifted his glass. “Thanks, Revolution.”

Tristan made a sputtering noise, pinching back a laugh like he didn’t think he should find thanking a revolution funny. Martin took a drink, and jutted his chin in invitation.

“Your turn,” he said.

“First girlfriend?” Tristan clarified.

“Or boyfriend,” Martin countered with a shrug. “Whichever.”

“Girlfriend would be Lottie Anders. She was twelve, I was eleven. Her family attended a few of the same hunts we did, but they lived in Devonsway. So really, she was a penpal who kissed me when schedules and weather permitted.”

Martin laughed aloud. “Does explain your excellent penmanship, though.”

“Highest marks in OFC,” Tristan boasted, motioning for another drink.

“…and?” Martin prompted.

Tristan pondered a moment, then looked mildly surprised. “If ‘effort’ is the defining factor between ‘boyfriend’ and ‘hayboy’, then I guess I’d have to say my first _boyfriend_ was Ethan.”

Martin tilted his head; stated more than asked. “The guy from the show?”

Tristan nodded, smiled gratefully to the bartender when she topped off his tumbler. “We were nineteen. Lasted about a semester. It was .. educational.”

He stilled then, and there was a moment where Tristan actively avoided looking at him, and Martin was reminded of that long-ago ride to the Crixa-

 _“She didn’t really talk about you until we were on the Front. But I knew there was_ _ someone_ _, well before then. Because there were times…”_

_And then he’d laughed, remembering something — and the laugh had choked off abruptly, becoming a cleared throat._

Martin went for ‘deadpan’.

“So should I be thanking _him_ for passing on his knowledge, or..?”

Tristan erupted in laughter, ears flushing scarlet.

* * *

Martin was _rolling_. Actual tears-in-his-eyes _crying_ , he was laughing so hard. It was infectious, and Tristan was all for joining in, except-

“Wait,” he injected, reaching out to grab Martin’s shoulder when the man collapsed onto the bartop. “You _have_ heard this story before, right?”

Because he’d been slowly losing composure into _this_ mess as Tristan had talked, and yes the situation had been _funny_ but-

“No!” Martin howled into his arm. “And god _damn_ I can’t figure out _why!_ This is fucking _gold!_ ”

Tristan’s hand cupped around the scruff of Martin’s neck, and he gave a firm squeeze. “Breathe, man. Sit up and breathe.”

* * *

They closed out their tab and left the lounge a little after one, Tristan leading the way back to his place a dozen blocks over. He looked much lighter, loose from the alcohol, and as they walked, he talked.

He told Martin about the time he and Leo took a group of Vert candidates through a neck-deep cesspool for no other reason than to see which of them would complain the loudest — but there’d been a cavern full of bioluminescent slugs at the end of the tunnel, and it’d been pretty fucking magnificent.

He told Martin about (now three-year-old) Christian Westwood discovering the word ‘bullshit’, and how it had been everything in his power not to lose his mind with laughter when Margie’s face went stone at Leo and he was trying _so hard_ not to react because ‘bullshit’ was _her_ word and _Fuck you, Tristan,_ his face read, _don’t you dare tell her that right now_…

He slung an arm across Martin’s shoulders at one point to guide him around a corner, and the slighter man had gone along with it easily, hands never leaving his pockets. Tristan let him go when he immediately swung around the railing to jog up the stoop, fishing out his keys. He trusted Martin to throw the bolt behind them, and trudged his way up the stairs, flipping the lights on as he passed the breaker.

Tristan went to the kitchen, and pulled a pitcher of water from the icebox; hefted it at Martin, who slumped into a stool at the island with a nod. He retrieved two glasses, filled them, and set the pitcher between.

“So tomorrow,” he said, taking a drink. “Breakfast at Celdana’s, head out from there?”

Martin nodded. “Sounds good.” He took a long swallow, and turned sideways in his seat; tilted his head when he noticed the new gramophone in its new location, and nodded approvingly.

“It gets a fair bit of use,” Tristan confirmed. “Eagles and Dylan mostly, if you’re still keeping score.”

Martin’s mouth curled up in a smile, and he looked at Tristan. “I wasn’t, really,” he admitted, “but it’s validating, so thanks.”

Tristan finished his water and set the glass in the sink; hesitated before picking up the pitcher to see if Martin wanted more, then put it away when his guest made a negating gesture and got to his feet.

“Spare bed’s made,” Tristan said when Martin strode past the sofa, setting his glass on the coffee table.

“Thought I might read a bit to wind down first.” He plucked the copy of _The Gunslinger_ from the bookshelf, and riffled its well-worn pages at Tristan. “Mind?”

“Nope,” Tristan popped. “Knock yourself out.”

Martin flipped open the cover ( _Here, you contrary asshole. Hate_ _ this _ _one!_ ) as Tristan made a circuit of the apartment, checking windows and turning off all the lights except the one by the sofa, before heading for his room.

“ _Did_ you hate it?” Martin asked, smiling.

Tristan turned in the doorway, grinning back. “How could I after she told me to?”

They exchanged nods goodnight, and Tristan closed the door between them. Martin sat on the sofa, shucked off his boots, dimmed the lamp. Then he stretched out across the cushions, and opened the book to chapter one.

* * *

_ Shard shoved at his chest. “Run.” _

_ There was nothing for it — Tristan bolted, the mage scrambling quick on his heels. Behind them, the cavern erupted into bedlam as the creatures lying in wait now gave chase. _

_ “Gate!” he shouted at the threshold, slipping her around in front of him. He hefted his P90 to his shoulder, and opened fire back down the tunnel; heard the thick thud of metal meeting meat under the rapid report. _

_ “Go!” A trio of silver baubles arched past his shoulder, blinking faintly purple. Tristan’s head spun toward Shard’s call, caught sight of their horses beyond the trump portal, and he swiftly backed through it after her, guarding their six as a violet explosion collapsed the tunnel. _

_ The Gate closed with a matchstick hiss. Tristan took a quick survey of their foxhole. _

_ “Clear,” Shard noted. _

_ “Shit, that was close,” he replied, lowering his firearm, and checking the charges on his ESA. “You square?” _

_ “Within parameters,” she responded distractedly, her attention already on the Scrye she’d pulled from her pocket. “It looks like sector twelve may have a problem, though.” _

_ He stepped to look over her shoulder, examined the multi-faceted orb in her palm as she rolled it through a complex series of motions. It unfolded into a map of the area, animated in real-time with coloured dots (infantry, cavalry, specialty, and enemy), which showed their army’s steady advancement, but also- _

_ “That’s a lot of contact,” he noted. _

_ “Avery and Saffron are there,” Shard said, pointing to a swirling red / green mark to the east. _

_ “Where are the Graves?” _

_ The map crumpled down into its globular form again, and she turned it a few times before replying. _

_ “Sector eight.” _

_ “Tell them to meet us there,” Tristan said, releasing their horses’ bosal ropes from a rocky outcropping, and throwing Vega’s over her neck. “Send Ave and Saf an ‘incoming’.” _

_ Shard snorted derisively, already tapping a patterned rhythm against the facet with her thumb as she accepted her mount. “I suspect you’ll be wanting a Gate next, m’Lord?” she asked, slipping the Scrye into her pocket again. _

_ It was a familiar banter by this point. “If it’s not too much trouble, First Acolyte,” he responded, mounting up. _

_ The trump portal crackled to life with barely a look, and she paused halfway into the saddle to report their message was received- _

_ It dropped down from the ridge so quick, so silent, Tristan never got his P90 to bear. Landed on the haunches of Shard’s mount, and sent it crashing to the ground in a bellowing heap. The motion whipped the mage back, then slammed her forward against the saddle. The creature’s claws sank into her ESA, pinned her down, and began to clench. _

_ For one wretched moment, their eyes met. _

_ Then hers flicked to the side, and she made a sweeping motion just as Tristan caught a falling movement from the corner of his vision. Vega leapt back and to the side, scrambling as the trump portal moved to swallow them, then skittered to a halt on an unsteady surface, sides heaving. There was a crunching sound, a mangled scream, and the Gate cracked out of existence. _

_ He was suddenly alone, staring out over the jagged crevasses of an obsidian plain, its edges tinted magenta by an ambient vermilion sky. The sounds of battle were a distant, directionless roar, rising and falling like tides. Mind sharp with a clarity that only came to him when the shit had gotten thick, he consulted the compass on his wrist, determined the correct direction, and steered his mare toward it- _

_ She took one step. Hesitated. Buckled, then locked her knees. Tristan leaned over in the saddle, but saw nothing wrong. He stroked her neck, spoke soothing nonsense, waited for the tremble beneath his palm to subside. Asked her to turn again- _

_ The sound was sickening when it registered. She took one loyal step, and he was launching from the saddle because she was suddenly lurching / collapsing / thrashing and her insides were spilling out from the gaping wound behind her flank and nonoVegano- _

_ His SIG-Sauer clicked ineffectively. His throat closed, and he drew a dagger- _

* * *

Roland and Jake had just encountered the succubus when Tristan’s bedroom door burst open. Barefoot in boxers and tee, he strode purposefully toward the balcony window, slid the bolt, and wrenched it open. Stepped through without hesitation, and clamped his fists around the railing to cycle a deep breath. Twice. And again. Then he hunched forward, shoulders curling over, and shook in the glow of the streetlight.

Eyes locked on since his appearance, Martin carefully set the book aside. Got to his feet, and closed the distance to the window; settled on the sill. After several minutes, Tristan made a steeling sound and straightened, scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, ran his fingers up and over his scalp, and stepped back to take a seat behind Martin’s shoulder, face damp and ruddy.

“Can I get you anything?” Martin eventually asked, voice pitched low.

A lengthy pause, then, “Water?”

Martin reached back and wrapped a hand around Tristan’s ankle, grounding him with a little squeeze before heading to the kitchen, refilling their glasses from earlier and bringing both out onto the balcony. He passed Tristan’s over, and settled into the other chair with his.

“Thanks,” Tristan managed, and took a sip. Paused, and took a longer drink.

“Bad one?”

“First in a while, actually,” Tristan admitted. “Shouldn’t be surprised, considering the evening I had. But still…” He looked disappointed, “Fuck.”

Martin cringed sympathetically. “For what it’s worth,” he offered, “I have it on good authority that this shit isn’t linear.”

And it was comforting, seeing that ghost of a smile pull on Tristan’s lips; meant he was playing this right, successfully developing a new rapport.

As if testing that thought himself, Tristan asked, “Is this what you did for her?”

Martin chewed his lip a moment, considering. “I suppose so, in a manner of speaking,” he admitted. “We had .. our own language for it. But yeah.”

Tristan’s glance said he recognized Martin was being tactful, and that he appreciated the effort. But then he closed off again, gaze going into the darkness beyond the streetlights. He folded his arms across his chest, water glass clutched at the crook of his elbow with one hand. Martin let the silence stretch as long as Tristan needed.

“The memory ones are the worst,” he eventually said. “Especially since every time I have one, I get back a little more.”

He made a small motion toward his grey-flecked temple with his empty hand. Martin turned side face in his chair, and bent one knee to hook a heel over the rail, making it clear that he was giving his attention; inviting whatever Tristan needed to share.

"Shard was a bitch, I won’t lie. And we were never going to be friends. But she was _really_ good at her job. We worked well together, after a fashion.” His voice was low, heavy with feeling. “I owe my life to her,” he resumed after a brief pause. “Because somehow, in her last act of existence, she _moved a fucking Gate_ to get me out, and I didn’t remember that until now.”

Tristan’s face went contemplative. Then perplexed. Then it was like remembering had supplied a missing piece and he was finally able to voice something else that had been eluding him. He opened his mouth to speak-

-then stopped cold, and shot Martin a look that was so heavy with conflict the younger man felt his stomach knot. Because it was about Aunna. It _had_ to be. Right now, between them, nothing else would prompt a full reversal like that.

But he liked Tristan. Respected him. Kinda thought he understood him - what he needed - a little better than he first did. And he’d had a half-dozen years to process losing her, now. So he tilted his chin in invitation. When Tristan gave him a querying eyebrow, he shrugged.

“There’s peace in the knowing,” Martin said. “Maybe it’ll bring me a little more closure, too.”

Tristan openly debated the veracity of this statement for some time — his expression nakedly skeptical. Martin did not flinch; he sat back against the balcony railing and tried to appear resolute. Eventually, the other man relented.

“Shard’s death was brutal,” he finally said. “There’s no other way to describe it. She exfil'd me before she went, but my mare took a fatal injury and I had to put her down right after. I was suddenly alone on a plane where firearms didn’t function, so my P90, my SIG-Sauer, my Glock were all fucking useless; all I had was hand-to-hand, my pistol bow, and a thirty-minute charge on my eesa. My people were waiting to rendezvous, but without a Scrye all I knew was the general direction they were located in — not how far away, or what lay between. I was pretty fucked, which is usually when my head is clearest.”

Tristan looked into his glass, frowned like he wished it were something stronger than water, then took a sip anyway.

“There was an explosion,” he resumed. “On her end. The column of fire it sent up, the shockwave that went out… I felt it through the ground a dozen klicks away. So my last coherent thought, before this happened,” Tristan tilted his head back and right, obliquely indicating the scars scoring his spine, “was that I had just seen my sister die. After Shard, and Vega, it’s no wonder I dissociated.”

And Martin had been fully ready to accept it at that, knowing yeah, being caught at ground zero would probably do it, Shapeshifter or no-

-only then Tristan continued:

“Leo told me later they found her just clear of the blast, under Sagr’s guard. She’d been run through and left for dead. He was with her, when she went.”

And it was very odd, the feeling that welled up in Martin then. His face contorted from confusion ( _I can’t have heard that right…_ ) to straight incredulity as he considered what Tristan had just-

“Wait a fucking-” Martin abruptly set down his glass, and leaned toward Tristan. “She avoided being _blown up_ , then died _run through?_ ”

And now Tristan was confused, but hedging more toward baffled. “That _does_ tend to kill someone, Martin,” he said, seeking a little levity.

But Martin wasn’t having it. He was…

He was _angry_ , he realized. He was angry because that made _no fucking sense_.

“There is no way,” Martin intoned, flat with repressed emotion, “ _No Way_ that killed her.”

And now Tristan was on the edge of his seat, his body turned toward Martin. But not eager; concerned.

“There was a funeral, Martin.” He carefully set his own glass down, folded his hands between his knees. “They buried her in the family plot at Willow Trace, next to our mother.”

“Tristan,” Martin retorted, levelly. “I’m not arguing that she’s gone. That would be insane. What I’m saying is she _wouldn’t_ die from being run through.”

Tristan slowly tilted his head, his expression shrewd. “What would make you say that?”

And that’s when Martin realized Tristan _still didn’t know_ oh god she’d literally taken this secret to the grave.

And fuck it _tore_ at him that it wasn’t his to tell, but keeping quiet was asinine at this point, so,

“Because,” he revealed, “Aunna was a Shapeshifter.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a moment, between Martin starting the word and finishing it, when Tristan’s brain slid a bit and

_He was twelve, and he was walking down the barn aisle at Willow Trace, tracking the persistent thunk-rumble-squeak he’d heard from the lawn._

_Found Aunna at the source, her back to the entryway, slamming the door of an empty stall so hard that it was bouncing at the latch without catching, then rolling back into her grasp for her to do it again. He didn’t have to look at the placard over her head to know what it would say. They’d put Rendez down, after…_

_“Aunna?” His voice cracked, timidity and hormones at war. She stilled immediately, and he heard the door clack shut as he drew closer._

_“Is it time to go?” Her voice was low, flat. She rounded toward him smoothly, but the way she tucked her other hand up into her cloak was awkward, jerky, and there was a flash of bone white-_

_“Tristan.” His name was a dull snap. He lifted his eyes to hers; knew they were wide in concern._

_But then she combed the hand through her hair, and tugged it in a tail over one shoulder._

He felt his throat make a strangled sound.

 _He was seventeen, and they were all together at OFC - him, Leo, Aunna - and how had he forgotten she was so fucking_ _ competitive _ _great leaping goddess._

_"Ha!" she barked, bounding up out of the scrum to snatch the baton away from his outstretched hand._

_Then Leo ploughed into her from behind, and slammed her to the ground, and they all heard the snap of bone (slightly muffled by the grass of the pitch, but still distinctive), and she howled. _

_“Oshit,” Tristan spit out as Leo scrambled up._

_But then the howl was laughter, and she was rolling over, and holding out the broken baton with one hand while rubbing her ribs with the other._

_“Good hit, Westwood,” she eventually managed, voice straining, face tear-stained. “Fuck me!”_

_(and Leo turned slightly pink at the collar…)_

“Oh,” he breathed. _Oh._ Because

_He was twenty-two, and she was shaking in his arms from the hospital bed, gaunt and hollow and out of her mind with the poison still coursing through her system._

_“I couldn’t stop it,” she repeated, wretched. She clutched at his biceps, his shoulders, his neck, his head. Her eyes were wide and frantic, staring at things that were not there; reacting to sounds that did not exist. “I tried to pull it out, Tristan. I did. But I couldn’t get it. What’s wrong with me that I couldn’t get it?”_

_From the next room, he could hear the other (few, so few) survivors of the 9th Cav groaning their own fevered rants. Tried to soothe her. Had no idea how. Maybe he’d pick up the rest of that psych course after all…_

He looked at Martin then, vision blurred, heartbroken.

And Martin looked devastated for telling him. Face so full of sympathy, it nearly prompted a physical response.

No wonder she’d loved him.

“I am so sorry,” he finally said.

Tristan shook his head, despondent. Got to his feet, and climbed through the window. Strode to the liquor cabinet, and pulled down the decanter of Reserve Rye; hooked two fingers around a pair of tumblers when he heard Martin take a seat on the sofa behind him. He settled into the opposite corner, and set the items on the coffee table; poured them each a healthy triple, and nudged Martin’s toward him. Picked up his glass, ignored the etiquette of savoring the vintage, and tossed it back.

Martin remained silent, waiting. After pouring another, Tristan eased into the pillow, tumbler in hand. He glanced up, and then over.

“Do you know if our parents-”

“No,” Martin shook his head curtly, then cringed minutely. “Mirelle knew, though. Or found out, shortly before…”

Which put that entire summer into a whole new perspective, and Tristan sighed heavily. His sister had rarely smiled after losing Mirelle - so impulsive, so desperate for acceptance among her peers - and everyone had assumed it was ‘just grief’, until they wrote it off as ‘just her’.

“I learned by accident,” Martin continued, lifting his glass and sipping carefully. “Oberon had convinced her to keep it quiet, but gotten her a Mentor-”

“Rað,” Tristan interjected, suddenly remembering the dark-skinned Weir. Martin nodded a small confirmation. “She told me once he was her anatomy tutor,” he added, and it was impossible to fight the wry smile that twisted his lips.

Martin chuckled. “It makes a whole different sense in retrospect, doesn’t it?”

And wasn’t _that_ a fucking understatement. “Masterclass,” Tristan grumbled, slightly bitter with admiration.

“But the thing is,” Martin resumed, tone even and factual, “the morning before she left, Aunna _told_ me that she likely wasn’t coming back. She said she had enemies on both sides because Oberon had promised her to marry a Lord of Chaos, but she’d ignored the summons after he’d gone on sabbatical, a few years before we met.”

Tristan thought back on Aunna’s behaviour at The Hill with a whole new clarity. “‘Enemies on both sides’,” he repeated. “That’s what she said?”

“She did,” Martin noded.

“She told me she thought Oberon was teaching her a lesson,” Tristan recalled. “I told her maybe he was offering a heavy-handed closure.”

Martin tried and failed not to snort. “I bet she took that well.”

And yeah, her wry / placating grin had been so tight, he could have fired arrows from it.

But then…

“Wait,” he started, turning his full attention to Martin. “You think she was targeted by the House he’d betrothed her to?”

“Maybe?” he admitted. “She was a _Shapeshifter_ , Tristan. And she died from being _run through?_ ” Martin’s face contorted in supreme disbelief. “I saw that woman after she’d been thrown through a hayloft onto reinforced concrete over twenty feet below, and life was aces less than three hours later. Fuck, _I_ ran her through by accident when we were sparring once, and she grumbled at me for an hour that I’d somehow managed to get her liver _and_ her lung, but missed her heart completely. I’m telling you: there is _No Way_ she was just ‘run through’. Part of the story is missing.”

Tristan’s conviction was unwavering when he said, “Leo wouldn’t lie to me.”

Martin sounded like he hated himself for asking, “But would he omit?”

And because he _couldn’t_ be as certain there, Tristan stood up. He paced the floor a moment, arms half-folded, plucking at his lower lip in thought.

“Call him,” Martin nudged.

Tristan balked, and looked at him sidelong.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin prompted, running a finger behind his left ear. “Call him.”

Tristan consulted the clock by the stairs, determined it’d be early in Amber but his friend would be up. So he retrieved his trump deck from its keeping place, thumbed the vertical cap open to pull Leo’s, and reached out.

“Hi, honey,” his illusion said. “How was the shoooooh what’s happened?”

Tristan wasted no time on preamble. “Can you come through?”

Leo looked behind him, presumably to Margie, then nodded and held out a hand.

* * *

The interface wasn’t _perfect._ He’d made improvements to the range of Llewella’s gift over the years, but portability was a work-in-progress. Still, it kept the skin-crawling sensation to a minimum when-

“-t’s going on, T?” Leo Westwood was saying as he stepped out of thin air, a hologram slowly materializing at the end of Tristan’s handshake.

And then his eyes were darting to Martin. And it was a little funny, but yeah, she’d definitely gravitated toward A Type.

“Leo Westwood, Lord Balfax,” Tristan was saying, gesturing between them, “Martin Barimen, Prince of Rebma.”

While Leo’s expression practically screamed _What the shit?_ at him, he did manage to not say it out loud, and that was impressive.

“Leo,” Martin said, rising, offering a hand in casual greeting. The other man accepted it, firmly.

“Highness,” he replied, voice tight.

“Hey, Leo,” Tristan soothed, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s ok. He’s ‘That Martin Guy’.”

Leo’s face did something positively ridiculous as he turned it toward Tristan. “Well _no shit_ , Sir,” he bit back. But it was more churlish bemusement than actual irritation.

“Not your CO anymore either, Colonel.” Tristan patted the shoulder; set his trump deck on the bookshelf, and stepped away to have a seat in the wingback. Leo smirked, then gave Martin a genuine appraisal.

“I heard good things,” he finally offered.

Martin smiled. “Likewise.”

“So what’s going on, gentlemen?” Leo asked as he released Martin’s hand and moved to the sofa, took in the dark outdoors, the decanter and glasses as he rounded the coffee table.

“Do you want the full debrief,” Tristan asked as Leo sat on the end closest to his chair, “or a quick and dirty rundown?”

“QND,” Leo replied. “Christian’s got a cold, and Margie’s been on foal watch.”

“We’ve been talking about Aunna,” Tristan stated. Leo looked at Martin, who’d taken a seat at the opposite end of the sofa.

“I see,” the colonel said.

And yeah. He was Rowan Vert, so his body language was pretty well schooled, but Leo still _felt_ like a man with something to hide.

“Hey, no. Leo. Listen.” Tristan reached out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, worked it around to his chest until Leo had pried his attention away from Martin. “ _Listen_. This isn’t a trap. We just want to know what happened to her, in the end. I’m still a bit hazy on the details, and Martin's not a fan of trump calls.”

Leo glanced back over his shoulder at Martin, who held up his palms in surrender, conceding Tristan’s assertion. The man relaxed incrementally.

“Ok,” he said, settling back into the pillow and lacing his fingers across his abdomen; resting one ankle atop his knee in applied nonchalance. “I was collecting identifiers when Eoin called to say they’d found you,” he began, glancing at Tristan as he said it, then focusing on the middle-distance, “and I heard this sound from just beyond the crater, like…”

When the pause stretched, Martin eventually offered, with authority, “Like someone had strangled a really angry hippopotamus."

Leo looked enlightened.

“ _Yes,_ ” he agreed, emphatically. “That damn horse was _still_ standing guard, even aft-” Leo bit down on what he was about to say, looking pained and curious in equal measure.

“I know about the explosion,” Martin confirmed, saving the discomfort. “I want to know about when you found her.”

Leo considered a moment, then nodded. He cast Tristan a glance, and tilted his head toward the decanter. Tristan smirked, and got up to retrieve a third tumbler.

“VetCorps put Sagr down, after I caught him up,” Leo admitted, accepting the drink Tristan poured for him. “With his injuries, I swear it was iron will alone kept him going long enough for someone he trusted to get to her.”

(The trio sipped in a slow syncopation, an unspoken toast of respect for a fiercely loyal companion.)

“I don’t know how it happened or who did it, but she’d been run through and left pinioned,” Leo resumed, his tone holding nothing back — the image was clearly a bitter note in his memory. “She asked if we’d won. She asked about the rest of the unit. She ment-” His eyes flicked to Martin. “She said ‘If anybody's gonna put up with me, he's it’.”

He wore a plaintive smile. Martin smirked into his drink and gave a concessional nod.

“She wasn’t wrong.”

Leo looked pleased, and a little heartbroken. “Her final words were that Margie and I make lots of sprogs.”

A pause, and Martin belted a laugh. Because he could hear her saying that, and after a moment’s consideration he saw Tristan chuckle too. Leo smiled, albeit sadly, and sipped his drink as though finished.

Tristan must’ve caught it the same time he did, because he was asking, “Leo..?”

But Leo was tipping his head back against the sofa and looking so uncomfortable it was palpable, gritting out, “Please don’t ask me this, Tristan.”

So Martin did. “What aren’t you saying?”

And Tristan shot him a look that could have been grateful, because now Leo was fixing his stormy blue stare on Martin instead.

“She’d been run through with her own sword,” he said.

Martin didn't understand the significance of that. Neither, it seemed, did Tristan. So Leo steeled himself, lowered his propped foot to the floor, and sat forward in his seat with his hands between his knees.

“I’m gonna wax a little poetic here,” he said, looking at Tristan. “But your sister? She was glorious and terrifying with that sabre. And the creatures she struck burst into flames before her.”

Martin cocked his head slightly, because Leo had said it as though it were written; and Tristan was _maybe_ cottoning to what he was saying. Then,

“Feüermede's a Pattern blade,” he realized, eyes widening. Leo grimaced, but didn’t deny it. “Well,” Tristan turned his attention to Martin, “that’d explain why she couldn’t heal her way out of it.”

Leo’s head jerked slightly, and he straightened. “What’s that?”

“Aunna was a Shapeshifter,” Martin stated without a glance, no longer beholden to keeping the secret. His eyes narrowed at Tristan. “Why would the blade matter?”

“They deal in Real damage,” Tristan explained. “Or so Shard told me, once. Greyswandir, Werewindle, Aardbrekker. They were quote ‘forged in the Pattern, and hold some of its essence’ end quote. I always took the stories for meta bunk, but if you peel away the lore one fact remains: Nothing fatally injured by one has ever recovered.”

“Aunna was a Shapeshifter?” Leo asked. He was blinking owlishly at Martin.

“Surprise?” Tristan replied, voice pitched low. When Leo rolled his eyes at his friend, Martin directed another query past him.

“Is that common knowledge? About Pattern blades?”

Tristan’s head wavered. “It's not _uncommon,_ but I suppose that's relative," he said, directing a thumb between himself and Leo. “We took a military symbolism course at the academy one semester, for example, and one of the pieces we studied was an epic about the Founding War.”

“‘And yea, She of splendor, bound and bearing Fire, go forth!’,” Leo recited, lifting his glass in a small salute before sipping.

There was something in the delivery of it that set Martin’s teeth on edge. He was gratified to see Tristan catch the same thing.

“This time, I _am_ going to ask,” Tristan said, voice low.

Leo looked agonized at the prospect, and Martin felt genuinely bad for the man, who was clearly being torn between-

“Wait.” He held up a hand to Tristan, then gave Leo his attention. “Who swore you to secrecy?” he prompted.

“Your father,” Leo replied, immediate, eyes locking. “And his.” He pointed two fingers at Tristan. “And while he and I have been friends most of our lives, _I_ do not have the luxury of being able to defy both my General _and_ my King.”

And shit it felt _awful_ , that look of betrayal on Tristan’s face past Leo's shoulder. But Martin pressed on.

“I’m gonna level with you, Leo,” he said. “I detest intrigue games. The sly maneuvering, the socio-political tally, the backdoor scores, all of it. I understand them, and how people can get their heads so wrapped up in them they get lost - think they’re directing the big picture, when really they’re just dressing their own narrative - but I won’t play. Savvy?”

After a small pause to consider, the colonel nodded. Martin returned the motion, and with a quick glance to include Tristan, he continued.

“Aunna went to war believing she wasn’t coming back because she’d refused to submit to a Lord of Chaos that Oberon had betrothed her to decades earlier. She told me this the morning before reporting to Amber, and was nearly hysterical in tears while she did it.”

He’d never seen her cry before — at least, not like _that_. Tears of laughter? Yes. Intense pleasure? Frequently. But that morning had been powered by fear, and anguish, and rage; the evening filled with bittersweet resignation and desperate need-

And that single realization was a hard flip in his polarity. Suddenly, dozens of scattered pieces of data were coalescing in his head, and he was pondering aloud.

“She was also _thoroughly_ _convinced_ she had no other choice but to go. As in: Eerily certain that something she very clearly _did not want to do_ was the _only_ correct course of action.” He gave Tristan an imploring look. “What does that sound like to you?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed, perplexed. “Like a Compulsion.”

“I keep thinking about her behaviour, in the months leading up to her deployment,” Martin resumed, almost conversationally. “We came back from that trip to Rjimswood, and she was .. different. Keyed up, but mostly under wraps; lost in her own head sometimes, like she’d been when we’d first met. I knew she was talking to _you_ though, and that there was drama on the homefront, so when she made clear she wanted distraction over discussion, I didn’t argue much.”

Martin almost laughed when he saw Leo’s face slip into a _You’re only a man, after all_ expression, then go comically blank and glance up peripherally. Instead, he curtailed any awkwardness by ignoring it.

“It started with day trips,” Martin continued. “‘Keeping up appearances’, she called it. She’d take Sagr out before dawn, and come back at twilight reeking of sulphur and cordite and iron. By spring she was intent on my learning more than just basic self defense, and turned the cellar into a training room. By high summer she’d taught me how to throw several styles of punches, how to shoot and maintain a dozen different firearms, how to efficiently edge a blade, and how to effectively subdue a Shapeshifter.”

Tristan’s gaze was piercing, his voice tight. “She knew how to do that?”

“Technically, yes,” Martin acknowledged, sensing where Tristan’s irritation was stemming from. “I don’t think it would work on a large scale, though. It’s pretty complicated. There’s dosages involved.”

Tristan pulled a dour face, but appeared momentarily mollified.

“We called a break, shortly after All Souls.”

 _“…doesn't seem wise to dig in for a long haul if one of us is feeling cramped. So maybe we_ _should_ _split up, before this goes sour.”_

_He felt flayed inside, but let the words out anyhow, like lancing a wound. He hoped he was wrong about his interpretation of things; suspected deeply that he wasn’t when she took a long drink of her pint, her face almost preternaturally still._

_“It's only fitting, I suppose,” she finally responded. “No sense hanging around for the 'wait and see', is there. Especially considering what we are.”_

Tristan looked surprised. “She never told me that.” He exchanged a glance with Leo, who shook his head with brows raised to confirm the same.

“It was a mutual parting,” Martin advised. “I honestly didn’t mind being the welcome distraction in ‘77, but when it happened in ‘82 I felt like a crutch, and that she needed space to work through something that’d been lying dormant for a while. So I gave her an out, and she took it, and I spent what equated to about six weeks meandering my way to Texorami. Stayed there hating life for maybe a fortnight before heading back to Burbank, and when I got there she’d left a message on my answering machine-”

_clickclickclick - hiss deadair breath - (barely audible) “…baby…” - hitched breath - gulp sigh - shush of fabric clatter click - dialtone_

“-three days earlier. So I went back to Keene, and she was sitting in the front room with that sabre in her lap, and when I asked her to set it aside and talk to me she just…”

He made a motion like he was drawing something up from his stomach, and blossomed his fingers as they passed his throat, opening his mouth at the same time. The other two men stared at him in a mixture of awe and fascination, as if he’d just claimed to have communed with a manticore. Martin focused his attention on Leo then; leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, fingers laced between his knees.

“So here’s all my cards on the table,” he stated, including Tristan again with a flick of his eyes. “No reciprocation necessary, I want that clear, because I loved her - love her still - and I will never _not_ feel guilty as fuck for letting her go. But now I’m pretty sure she was Compelled into battle and, if I’m being completely honest, that hurts far more than the thought that she was bested by someone with a grudge.”

Silence enveloped the trio then, broken by the intermittent chirp of a cricket outside the open window. Martin watched Leo consider what he’d been told with a distant, narrow stare. He shifted his gaze to Tristan, who had slouched into the corner of the wingback, chin in hand, fingers curled over his upper lip; his other arm was folded across his middle, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He caught Martin’s eye, and with a look told him to give it a minute; to be patient.

So Martin followed Tristan’s lead, and gave Leo space. He slumped back in his seat, knees apart; scrubbed his palms over his face, ran his fingers through his hair, and linked his hands behind his head, arms akimbo. Then he let himself actually _think_ about what he’d just put together, and consider if there was some way to confirm a Compulsion if the receiving party were-

“There’s no body in her casket,” Leo offered, carefully.

Martin felt himself jerk back to attentiveness as Tristan said, “Repeat that?”

“There’s no body in her casket.” The colonel’s voice was a husk, hollow and brittle. “When they removed Feüermede, she disintegrated. Like .. like she’d burned up from the inside, and that sword was the keystone holding her together.”

His words were tight at the end, pinched with restrained emotion, and his posture had gone rigid. Martin caught Tristan’s gaze over Leo’s hunched shoulders, thrown as much by the admission as the sudden discomfort he felt — like this moment didn’t belong to him, and he was invading by being here for it.

Martin sat up, and tilted his head toward the kitchen. Tristan gave him a small nod in reply, sitting upright as well. Martin got to his feet, and retreated to the galley to give them some privacy.

* * *

For several moments the only noise in the apartment was cricket song. Then it was water into a kettle, and the clatter of the stovetop, and Martin had put James Taylor on the gramophone which yes, that was good. Leo would appreciate the soothing camouflage.

Tristan leaned forward, reached over, and placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder.

The touch was a crack in the dam. Leo’s back spasmed, and he was suddenly clenching his fingers across the nape of his neck; had crowded his elbows around his head and folded into himself, going as small as he could make his six-foot frame achieve. In all their years of friendship, not since the Dowager Westwood passed when they were in their thirties had Tristan seen him look so despondent, and it was wretched to behold. He moved to sit on the coffee table and curled an arm across his friend’s back, tucking his head alongside the man’s left shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Leo,” he sighed, working to keep the bitterness from his voice. “They had no right to make you carry that alone.”

He’d love nothing more than to give his father a piece of his mind about it in fact — only doing so would jeopardize Leo’s station, and that would be a greater loss. But he was _livid,_ and that was a very rare emotion for him. Difficult to process.

He could hear Martin in the kitchen, taking his time in brewing coffee and assembling the service set. He was grateful for the courtesy, since it was several minutes before Leo was finally able to unfurl, and when he did it was by slow degrees: elbows relaxing, then hands dropping, then spine straightening, finally chin lifting. His face was patchy, and his blue eyes were bloodshot, but he looked mildly relieved for the release. In fact, when Tristan brought his hand up to cup the back of his neck, Leo pulled up a watery smile in response.

He returned it, asking, “You square?”

“Five by,” Leo replied, rote. Then, “Well, four by. But I’ll get to five.”

Tristan gave him a squeeze and let his hand drop. Beyond, he saw Martin glance out from the galley and go back to his task. Leo clocked his observation, and reached over to nudge his knee aside with one hand.

“I’m gonna…” He trailed off, canting his head toward the bathroom.

Tristan made an understanding sound, and moved out of his way. When Leo had closed the door, he picked up the decanter and pinched their glasses in his fingers; stood up, and returned the liquor to its shelf on his way to the kitchen; gripped Martin’s bicep as he passed through the narrow-ish space to place the tumblers in the sink.

“You ok?” he asked.

Martin huffed a laugh. “Beat me to it,” he replied with a sideways glance. Then he tapped two fingers to his temple, adding, “It’s a work-in-progress.” His head tilted toward the closed door. “How’s he?”

Tristan sighed. “I want to think this was a _good_ thing, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head in silent conflict as Martin turned to lean against the counter, handing him a cup of coffee. “All the same, I could seriously light into the pair of them, right now.”

“I could probably take mine on a lucky day,” Martin offered, and it was validating to know he was of a like mind. “And part of me _really_ wants to ask why you think they did it,” he admitted, reaching back for his own mug. “But I think that conversation can wait for another time.”

Tristan nodded, settled back against the opposite counter, and made himself breathe - five in, five out - before he focused on Martin and sipped his coffee.

“So if you had to hazard a guess,” he eventually said, “what do _you_ think happened?”

Martin gave him a sardonic look, then raised a loose fist and ticked his theories off, starting with his thumb and working around to the pinky. “She burned out when her Shapeshifter gene failed to preserve her; she burned out because her Shapeshifter gene tried _too hard_ to preserve her; the sword was called ‘fire made’ because it set everything on fire; it’s what would happen to _any of us_ because Blood of Amber is descended from Chaos and it’s a goddamn _Pattern_ _blade-_ ”

Tristan blinked, a little set back by the heat of Martin’s rapid-fire response, and the younger man cut himself off; let his hand drop to rest on the edge of the counter with an apologetic grimace.

“She never used it when we sparred,” Martin eventually added, tone tempered. “So I don’t know if it set _everything_ on fire. That could’ve been specific to whatever she was facing off with on the Front.”

“It’d be a strange ask, getting it from my father to find out,” Tristan said.

Martin gave him a tentative grin, “And I’m not about to borrow Aardbrekker and start sticking Royals just to test that _last_ theory.”

Tristan snorted. “Probably best,” he advised. Then, sobering, “I honestly can’t think of another instance like her, though,” he ceded with a frown. “But I worry that making inquiries of those who possibly _could_ will only lead back to Leo. And that Can Not Happen.”

“Agreed,” Martin nodded decisively. “So .. let that dog lie for now?”

The bathroom door clicked just as Tristan made an affirmative sound, and he reached past Martin for the third mug; proffered it as Leo emerged. Martin slipped out of the galley, settled into one of the nearby barstools, and stretched left to lift the needle from the record.

“Well this was a hell of a way to meet someone,” Leo said, accepting the mug and reaching compulsively for the sugar bowl. He looked less blotchy and more controlled, but his voice was still rough around the edges. “Thanks, T.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Tristan replied, shooting Martin an inclusive glance while his friend spooned two heaps into his cup. “I don’t think either of us _intended_ to go trolling for trauma tonight, but you know how it is.”

“And I _did_ make you promise to call if it went to shit.” Leo purposefully knocked an elbow against Tristan’s as he stirred, “So really, who’s to blame here?”

Tristan rested a hand on his shoulder, and gave a small squeeze; a silent, commiserative gesture. Leo smiled behind his mug, and he did look lighter, somehow — released from a simmering tension that Tristan had wrongly attributed to his oldest friend becoming a father. It’d be a while before he forgave Julian for that.

“Hey, Leo.” Martin's voice was soft, and he waited until he had the man’s attention before resuming with bald sincerity, “I shouldn’t have dropped that detail on you like I did, about Aunna being a Shapeshifter. It was flippant and a little cruel, and I’m sorry.”

Tristan had observed first hand over the years that Martin was _exactly_ the type of person to acknowledge when they’d behaved counter to their standard, so his apology wasn’t unexpected. But one last little knot of anxiety dissolved in his chest when he saw Leo decide he was all-in on this fledgling friendship — the way his posture softened, his jawline smoothed, his face creased up instead of down, and,

“I know it’s a bit late,” Leo said, “but I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Martin replied. “And likewise.”

Leo shook his head, a wounded smile wrinkling his brow. “I feel like I never really knew her, now,” he confessed, passing Tristan a quick look. “We had extensive history, yes; and I could read her well enough to be an effective second-in-command on the Front. But she never let me in.” His eyes landed back on Martin. “Not like you.”

“You knew her, Leo,” Martin asserted, a grin pulling on his lips. “We didn’t discuss Amber much - honestly, I think we were both pretty happy to pretend it didn't exist for a while - but she’d always mention you fondly, when she was feeling nostalgic.”

“As ‘the sidekick’?” Tristan asked, offhandedly, “Or ‘the husband’?”

Martin barked a laugh into his mug, and looked absolutely unrepentant about it. “That depended on whether you were ‘the heroic dumbass’ or ‘the contrary shit’ of the story,” he admitted.

Tristan felt it along his left side when Leo laughed; joined in heartily as he added a little milk to his own coffee.

“But really,” Martin resumed, almost dismissively, “I learned about the shapeshifting thing by accident, so you shouldn’t fee-”

His words stopped dead, and his gaze abruptly went distant, eyes cast down and to his right. When the hesitation drew out a few beats, Tristan exchanged a glance with Leo, who pursed his lips into a frown and shrugged.

“Marty?” Tristan ventured, laying a palm on the counter in front of him, leaning in. The man blinked, eyes narrowing in consternation before lifting to meet his.

“According to Aunna, the number of people who’d seen what she could do was exactly five.”

It took a moment to follow his thread. “Including you?” Tristan asked, straightening. Martin nodded, and lifted a thumb; then he counted the rest off as Tristan listed them, “Mirelle, Oberon, Rað…” 

When Tristan failed to come up with a name for the pinky finger though, Martin held it up alone and smiled cooly.

"Aunna had a counterpart," he revealed, crooking the digit for emphasis. "She supposedly self-exiled, and went into deep hiding before the real fighting started."

Tristan caught his meaning. So, too, did Leo. The two shared a silent deliberation before,

"In the interest of 'plausible deniability'," Leo said, "maybe I shouldn't be privy to this conversation.” He shifted his gaze momentarily to the brightening outdoors, the misting gallops across the street, and added, “In fact, I should probably be headed back."

“We’ll save it for the road,” Tristan agreed, casting a glance at Martin.

“I’m in no rush,” he replied, turning sideways on his stool, and resting an elbow on the counter.

“First thing’s first, then,” Tristan nodded, nudging past Leo and heading into the sitting room. “I don’t want to suffer Margie’s wrath for sending you home the long way, so Northport or Cabra Shoals?”

“The Shoals,” Leo replied, finishing his coffee in an overlarge swallow.

Tristan picked up his trump case from the bookshelf, and returned to the kitchen, his face lifting in a knowing grin as he flipped open the horizontal edge and thumbed out the top card.

“Stopping for tiny cakes?” he asked.

“You’re going to make an excellent husband someday,” Leo responded.

Tristan reached over to pat his oldest friend’s cheek, the requested trump flagging between his fingers. “All thanks to you, dear.”

Leo shoved him off good-naturedly, then turned and shook Martin’s hand, gripping his upper arm with a warm smile; told him he was welcome at Balfax Manor any time. In return, Martin thanked Leo for shedding more light on things, and assured if he ever set foot in Amber again, he’d make it a point to stop by.

Leo stepped to Tristan then, and the two embraced in a familiar farewell as Tristan activated the trump to Cabra Shoals. He heard Martin shift uncomfortably on his barstool when Leo stepped through and evaporated in a prismatic flash, so he released the connection quickly, and stowed the card with its fellows; dropped the case on the bench by the stairs on his way to the bathroom.

“Gonna shower,” he advised. “Gimme twenty.”

“So you’re still up for this?” Martin’s tone was casual, and when Tristan glanced back his posture matched. He wasn’t worried; just checking in. “We can go another time, if you’d rather.”

Tristan felt his face twist up in a wry smile. “After I walked the Pattern, do you know what Aunna gave me shit about the most?” he asked. When Martin responded with an insightful smirk, Tristan shrugged. “Not to get sentimental, but this trip almost feels like honouring her, now.”

Martin’s face smoothed into something commiserating.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It kinda does.”

* * *

Tristan showered. Martin made himself useful by cleaning up the coffee service, re-sleeving James Taylor, putting _The Gunslinger_ back on the shelf, and locking the balcony window. He slipped into his boots, and sat in the wingback to lace them. Then he leaned back and pondered the burst of information that’d been presented to him; the threads sim0ne had help him pull together.

When his companion returned to the sitting room exactly twenty minutes later, Martin had disseminated as much as he could alone. He caught Tristan’s gaze as he blinked out of his thoughtful stare; raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Tristan sat on the sofa to pull on his boots, and there was an air about him - like something ‘ex’ had been re-engaged - when he said,

“I’m listening.”

There was no hesitation to Martin's reply.

“Dara Helgram."


	5. Epilogue - When I Think That I Am Free

It felt like a perfect day. There was loose hair blowing across her face, and sunlight on her bare skin, and soft moss beneath her han-

 _Wait,_ came the thought. _What?_

Because awareness .. returned. And considering even her basic understanding of Pattern blades included the fact that, Shapeshifter or not, being run through the heart with one generally meant stuff like this _did not happen?_ She was very, very confused.

Still, she allowed her senses to sharpen as she lay there, listened to all of the typical woodland sounds around her — the constant rattle / scramble / shuffle, overlaid with leaf whisper and bough creak, an intermittent punctuation of birdcall. She could smell the damp of detritus, of spoor, of fruit gone overripe; feel the faint breeze riffle the grass against her skin, lift the fine hairs on her arms.

She frowned, her brows drawing down when she clenched her eyes tight before slitting them open. The sky was a riot of tangerine and mauve, cut across by thin wisps of chartreuse. She blinked rapidly and panned her gaze without moving her head; saw she was in a glenn, with the capped peaks of mountains far to her left, and the tops of violet-leafed trees to her right. The sun was a pale blue orb slowly dipping behind their fronds.

Fingers and toes wiggled when she willed. Limbs moved freely when she gave them an experimental flex. She sat up cautiously, and tucked her hair behind her ears before something at the bottom of her vision finally captured her full attention.

It’d been years since her body had maintained a blemish, and longer still since it’d born a scar.

Yet here was evidence of her wound: A radiating fractal of red-puckered flesh, as if her veins had caught fire and branded her from the inside. The point of entry was a thatchwork the size of her palm, just left of her sternum; with filaments extending some distance up her shoulder, her neck, across her breast, down her torso, branching and thinning like roots as they splayed.

Delicately, she traced one finger along a ridge from the V of her throat to the epicenter, above her heart. It felt warm, like new skin heated by the sun; but she got no sensation from it. The nerves below were unresponsive.

Still, she was morbidly fascinated to see it, touch it. Proof of life. Of survival.

Her vision swam. Her breath caught on a sob.

Because she was confused, yes. But also _joyful_.

Because she was a pragmatist, and Shadow was infinite — of course Heaven and Hell existed, somewhere; but the idea of an Afterlife was bullshit. So whatever was happening, this wasn’t _that_.

Aunna didn’t know where she was, or how she’d gotten there.

It was irrelevant.

She was alive.

She was _alive_ , and she would go _Home_.

**~ End of Book One ~**

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was a long time working (no joke; it's been kicking around in my head since, like, 2001), and I'm so thrilled to have finished it.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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